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TO MY PUPILS, 
with the hope that they may carry 
all High and Holy Living 
far into the Twentieth Century; 
and on the Day that God maketh up 
His Jewels, 

We May All Meet. 




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■ ‘ '■■ ' .-'Ay/'-!. »'ii l 




COOLEEMEE; 

A TALE OF SOUTHERN LIFE. 


JUOOK 1.— BISFORC: THE WAR. 


CHAPTER I. 

A VIKGIKIA HOME. 

In the front porch at Cooleemee*, a fine old Virginia country home, 
in August, 1859, the family were assembled immediately after break- 
tast, according to a custom for the ladies to sit with the gentlemen, 
while the latter inhaled the fragrance of the Virginia weed and dis- 
cussed the questions of the day. On the left of the large, open door 
leading mto the hall sat Colonel Bradford, the owner of the mansion 
and fail* domain. The Colonel possessed his title by right of having 
commanded a regiment of militia in his younger days. He was a 
tine-looking man of about sixty years of age, tall, though slightly 
bent, a line, dark eye contrasting well with prematurely silvered hair, 
and a lace benevolent, though irresolute in expression, and denoting 
narrowness of intellectual scope. At a glance you recognize the 
courteous, dignified bearing oi the V irginia gentleman of the old 
school, here equivalent lo ‘‘he came with the Conqueror” of our 
English ancestors. On the right of the door sat Mr. Edward Brad- 
lord, the Colonel’s eldest son, a young man of about thirty years of 
age, tall, erect, well-proportioned, with regular features, bright, gray 
eyes, beautifully arched brow, dark, waving hair, and with his noble, 
talented face bringing to your mind all that you have read of knights 


ludiau— Cool Spring. 


2 


A VIRGINIA HOME. 


and chivalry, of “derring-do” and generous action. Near him, her 
delicate hand resting on his knee — notwithstanding his meerschaum — 
is his wife, fair, fragile, graceful, a true type of the Southern lady. 
A little way from Mrs. Bradford is Mr. Albert Vaughan, a gentleman 
farmer, whose lands lie just opposite to the Colonel’s on the other 
side of the river, and who, with his young sister, is on a visit to 
Cooleemee. Mr. Vaughan is apparently about thirty-three years of 
age; his leading traits of character are seen by a single glance at his 
face — strength of will and firmness of purpose; the mouth when 
quiet looks stern and hard-set, but occasionally breaks into a smile of 
rare sweetness. 

On the steps of the porch, not far from Mr. Vaughan, sit two girls ; 
the elder, Alice Bradford, about eighteen years of age. At first sight 
she strikes you as being less handsome than either of her brothers, 
Edward or Charles — the fair, blue-eyed youth of twenty, leaning with 
his cigar on the pillar just opposite — but her face has a charm which 
neither of the others possesses. The face is delicate and pale, the 
figure slight, the eyes large, dark and varying, the nose, small, the 
lips full and red. The dark hair is simply put back from her fore- 
head and wound around the back of her head. The dress is exquis- 
itely neat and arranged with artistic taste. By her side is her friend, 
Lily Vaughan, a year younger. Lily’s figure is lower and more 
rounded than Alice’s; her hair of a light chestnut and curling around 
her open brow. Her face is thoughtful and subdued, with less of 
hope in it than in that of most persons of her age; something that 
tells of discipline and of a beginning of physical sulf'ering and men- 
tal disquie^de not common at seventeen. At Charlie’s feet lies 
Bush, his favorite pointer, who, having breakfasted, and feeling her- 
self incapable of conversation and smoking, has resigned herself to 
a contented^nap. 

“Excuse me for ini^rrupting you, father,” said Mrs. Bradford, as 
the Colonel paused to re-fill his pipe in the midst of a philippic 
against his fellow-citizens north of Mason and Dixon’s line; “but it 
is really time that you should decide about Alice’s returning with us. 
We must leave in a few days. Do let her go, father; she ought to 
see something more of the world now.” 

“What do you say, Alice, do you want to go, child?” asked the 
Colonel, as Alice turned her head. 

“Yes, papa; that is, if you and Charlie will not be too lonely with- 
out me,” said Alice. 


A VIRGINIA HOME. 


3 


“Oh! we can do without you,” said Charlie; “you must go to town 
and find a hero, Alice, or you will be taking it into your head that 
old Capt. Smithson or ‘T. Mortimer Jones’ are Sir William Wallace 
or Harley L’Estrange. It will relieve me of quite an onerous duty 
to resign her to your charge, sister,” said Charlie, with a mock grav- 
ity that raised a laugh. 

“Well, I suppose she must go,” said the Colonel, “though I will 
miss her much. You and Lily must come over and see us often, 
Albert.” 

“As often as we can, sir,” replied Mr. Vaughan, as his eye rested 
for a moment on Alice, thinking how little the dreamy, novel-reading 
life she had led would fit her for the world, and then turning with 
some pride to his own fair young sister whose education, mental and 
spiritual, had been so carefully directed by himself and the mother 
lately laid in the grave. But as he looked at Lily a new and sudden 
pang smote him — a pearly tint in the complexion never before ob- 
served met his gaze — and not only that, but 

“an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if ite lid were charged with unshed tears,”— 

and he resolved that he would watch his sister more carefully than 
he had done. 

“Come Lily,” said Alice, “let us go to walk; we will not have 
many more opportunities,” and the two girls, with arms thrown 
lightly around each other, stepped out under the fine oak trees in 
front of the house. Leaving the older persons to finish the tobacco 
and conversation in the porch, we will accompany the girls in their 
walk around the beautiful grounds. Through the fino old trees scat- 
tered here aniji there over the lawn mixed with some of later growth — 
the cataipa, Lombardy poplar, and white pine — one planted by Ed- 
ward Bradlord when a boy, and another by Charlie — all around the 
extent of the cedar hedge enclosing the place, the girls strolled. On 
a ridge bordering the forest beyond the house are the white-washed 
cabins for the old and more favored servants, while scattered here and 
there in the background are the darker and less picturesque-looking 
ones of the field hands, each with its little patch for vegetables and 
pig or poultry. The more ornamental cabins were planned by Mrs. 
Bradfield, wife of the Colonel. At the foot of the hill on the right 
of the house, overshadowed by a giant oak, is the spring whose clear, 
cold, delicious waters gave the name to the place. In the rear of the 
fine, old, substantial brick mansion is the garden, and thither our 
girls soon found their way. Mrs. Bradford had bestowed great care 


4 


A VIRGINIA HOME. 


on this spot, and the Colonel kept it up in memory of his wife and 
on Alice’s account. Broad, smooth walks traversed it in every direc- 
tion, adorned with shrubbery, parterres, roses of every variety, and 
summer-houses covered with vines. In the lower part of the garden 
nature furnished in the fall towards to the low lands of the river am- 
ple opportunity to construct a terraced garden, within whose embank- 
ments were cut here and there semi-circles, containing rustic seats 
and tables, in which the family sometimes assembled and took tea. 
In a lovely nook at the left extremity on the top of the lirst of the 
embankments, and shaded by the weeping-willow and sweetest roses, 
was the grave of Alice's mother. Brom this spot, through the trees 
left as a barricade to the garden, there were here and there openings 
giving glimpses of the river, of the distant forest-crowned Horizon, 
and tne mil pon mile of beautiful Indian corn stretching up and 
down the river, bending its green and graceful forms, and wavmg its 
golden locks in the morning breeze. 

“Beautilul!” said Alice, as she reached this spot; ‘*i never weary 
of this scene, Lily. That distant horizon, those free, grand trees, that 
lovely river, and beautiful corn, throwmg its arms out to the breeze, 
give me such a sense of expanse and freedom. I love ail things free; ’ 
and drawing the comb from her hair, she shook it out as it lloated 
down her shoulders. 

“You look, indeed, as if you would fly, or as il you scarce on tiptoe 
touched this gross mundane sphere,” said Lily, smiling; “but come 
down from that state of beatification, Alice, and let us talk of your 
visit to town.” 

“That is one reason why I feel as 1 do,” said Alice^ throwing her- 
self on the grass beside her friend; “that, and this glorious morning. 
I feel as if 1 was just about to enter the great world of which 1 have 
read and dreamed so much. What shall i find there > Whom shall 
I see there? Shall I find my destiny there? ” 

“Lily,” said Alice, suddenly, leaning on her friend’s knee, and turn- 
ing to look up in her face, “you seem so content to stay in these 
wilds, one would think you had found your destiny here,” she added, 
smiling, but with intuitive quickness, though much surprised, chang- 
ing her tone as she observed the sudden fiush succeedea by pallor on 
Lily’s face. “It is not so with me; it is true that my heart is, as 
Burns says, like tinder, and continually in a flame with some god or 
other. Do you remember my fancy when a child for Archie h'ergu- 
son, and how Archie used to send me kiss-verses and sugar-plums by 


A VIBGLSriA HOME. 


g 


Charlie? Charlie reserving a good portion of the plums as ‘toll’ for 
bringing them? And how Archie and I had a lovers’ quarrel because 
he walked with Fannie Calloway the day that we went to get the 
evergreens to decorate the school-room ? And I wrote Archie a letter 
of tender reproach with a beginning that I got from Bulwer’s ‘ Con- 
versations with an ambitious student in ill-health,’ “ I write you, my 
dear and unforgotten Archie, the last lines this hand will ever trace.” 
I don’t know whether I expected to die or not,” continued xilice, 
laughing; “I suppose I thought it was a pretty beginning to a letter; 
a great thing with us girls, you know, and 1 wasn’t very particular to 
keep to facts. But 0 ! what an end that luckless letter came to, with 
various other similar effusions. They were carefully put away in my 
special drawer, to which even mamma hadn’t access, and Charlie, who 
knew that that drawer was the cynosure of my eyes, got angry with 
me one day and stole my papers, and threw them out of the window, 
and there papa found them and called me to him and said it was very 
improper for me to write such things, and told me to go and burn 
them, which 1 did, except one piece of paper on which Archie’s name 
was printed in large, sprawling letters, and that floated out from the 
Are, and I thought lire even had no power over that name, 0, what 
a little goose 1 was!” said Alice, laughing. “And my last love was 
at fourteen, for George liivers, grown man as he was, wliom i thought 
like Ernest Maltravers, 1 really did love him passionately, Lily, and 
vowed vengeance on him, because he was all unconscious of it. 

*• Doom’d him to love, and to love lu vain 
With a yearning Bpirit and a burning brain,” 

as 1 had done. But papa took me on that trip to Washington, and 
that love passed, too, flckle as 1 was — but i weary you with my non- 
sense, darling; what is the matter ” 

“1 am not very well, Alice,” said Lily, stooping to kiss her friend, 
but brother will wish to go home, and as you are going away, dar- 
ling, let us read the Psalms for the day together;” and Lily drew a 
little prayer-book from her pocket. 

It was the thirtieth day of the month. As the girls finished the 
sublime anthem, “Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord,” 
concluding with the Gloria Patri, — “Lily,” said Alice, “I do feel this; 
this glorious scene and these beautiful psalms are in such harmony 
with each other, the sky and trees and flowers and corn and river all 
look as if they were praising God, and ‘ maidens ’ should do so too. 


6 


EARLY EDUCATION. 


But what are you looking for? ” as Lily turned over the pages ot the 
prayer-book. 

“For such a beautiful prayer, suitable for you before you go away,” 
said Lily, and she read in a low, subdued tone: “Assist us mercifully, 
0 Lord, in these our supplications and prayers, and dispose the way 
of thy servants towards the attainments of everlasting salvation ; 
that among all the chances and changes of this mortal life, they may 
ever be defended by thy most gracious and ready help, through J esus 
Christ our Lord. Amen.” Who that looked at these two lair girls 
then— Lily’s holy, sweet face, and Alice’s lighted by the glow of a 
beautiful imagination, could realize the discipline that was necessary 
to dispose their way towards the attainment of everlasting salvation? 


CHAPTER 11. 

EARLY EDUCATION. 

The discerning reader will perceive from the contents of the fore- 
going chapter that “Topsy” is not the only Southern exotic who 
“ growed ” without much training, and that young ladies may attain 
their physical growth, and like Dickens’s Joe, ‘‘never knew iiothink” 
about the manifold duties of woman’s life. Beautiful as it may be in 
poetry to read of the child of nature, it may be disastrous enough in 
real life to follow no other guide than that which nature gives. Col- 
onel Bradford, with neither that knowledge of the human heart which 
is the gift of nature, nor that spiritual insight which comes by a deep 
knowledge of the law of God, kept only a general watch over his 
child’s external conduct, and thought little of the working of the 
world within. On Mrs. Bradford’s death, Alice was left for several years 
in a great measure to the care of her black mammy, who kept a care- 
ful watch over her physical well-being, aided by some orders of the 
Colonel concerning air and light which she dared not disobey, and an 
occasional suggestion from Mrs. Vaughan, Albert’s and Lily’s mother, 
to the effect that it is not an inexorable law of nature that the baby 
should have the “thrash,” which mammy eschewed as a modern inno- 
vation. It may be questioned, also, whether Alice’s early-awakened 
imagination profited by mammy’s stories — told ostensibly to put her 
to sleep — but which generally had the contrary effect of keeping her 
awake, although mammy, like some other philosophers, held to her 


EAKLY EDUCATI02?'. 


7 


theory in spite of facts. Colonel Bradford, with several of the neigh- 
boring planters, early engaged the services of a gentleman and his 
wife as teachers, who kept a mixed school of girls and boys. These 
teachers were rather showy than thorough, and Alice passed into her 
teens with a limited knowledge of grammar, less of arithmetic, some 
proficiency in geography and philosophy, on a broad foundation of 
novels and romance. She was passionately fond of reading, and 
wrote early and with fiuency. In “compositions” she excelled, writ- 
ing them and love-letters for half the school. “The child will be 
clever enough,” said papa; “she is delicate; I will not push her.” 
And so Alice added rather a general knowledge of music and I'rench 
to her other accomplishments, and went on reading novels to the 
completion of her “education.” 

The Colonel had early imbibed a prejudice against boarding-schools 
from his neighbor, Mrs. Vaughan, who from the recollections she re- 
tained of one she had attended in her youth, had good reasons for 
saying, “ I would never send a girl to a boarding-school until her 
principles are formed, and as young people’s principles are slow in 
forming, I think it safer not to send Lily at ail.” Lily’s education 
had been far different from Alice’s. Her widowed mother early de- 
termined to devote much of her time to her instruction, and she was 
much better taught than most girls in the elements ol a good Eng- 
lish education. Albert, on his return from the University, gave her 
regular instructions in Latin, h'rench and mathematics. Lily’s relig- 
ious training had also been much more thorough and practical than 
Alice’s, though Mrs. Vaughan, as godmother to Alice, had endeav- 
ored to discharge her duty in this way to her as opportunity offered. 
But in one respect Lily’s education had sulfered more than Alice’s — 
from her mother’s favoritism towards her eldest child. Albert was 
much like his father to whom his mother was devoted, and on her 
husband’s death her affections seemed to concentrate on her son. That 
her mother loved her brother far better than herself, Lily felt intui- 
tively before she was three years of age. 

Both Colonel Bradford and Mrs. Vaughan had been more successful 
in the education of their sons. Colonel Bradford understood better 
the temptations to which boys and youths ai’e liable, and early taught 
his sons to “ride, shoot, and speak the truth,” to be manly, open and 
honorable, to fear God, and to hate cowardice and licentiousness. Al- 
bert Vaughan’s early bent was received from his excellent father, and 


8 


Alice’s destiny. 


his naturally reserved nature was kept warm and open by his mother’s 
devotion to him. Albert’s early love died whilst he was at college, 
and so strong was the impression made on him by her death that now 
at thirty-three he seemed hardly to have recovered from it. After 
his mother’s death, which took place about six months before our 
story opens, all the warmth of his affections centered on his young 
sister. Edward, Colonel Bradford’s eldest son, a young man of tal- 
ents and promise, chose the law as his profession and settled in a 
Virginia town, where he married. Charles had just left the Univer- 
sity and consented to remain at home with his father and aid him in 
overlooking the servants and plantation. 


CHAPTER III. 

Alice’s destiny. 

Who ever forgets his first visit to town? From the clamorous 
hackmen to the crowded streets all is new and strange. What a con- 
trast between the quiet life of the country, its easy-going, slow-talk- 
ing people, its weekly mail and weekly newspaper, such momentotis 
events, its crops and neighborhood gossip, and the quick action, the 
ready talk, and abounding life of the city. We do not mean, how- 
to give the pre-eminence to the town; with less quick uess and energy, 
we find in the country more thought and a deeper intelligence; less 
of the small coin of conversation, but more of its real gold. It is 
well to walk with men sometimes in cities, and to commune with 
one’s own heart and be still in the country. 

The gas was just lit as Alice, in company with her brother and his 

wife, whirled through the streets of . The brilliantly-lighted 

streets, the new scene of life and activity, the crowded buildings, all 
combined to increase the vague, excited sense of expectation, which 
had been aroused by her first thoughts of entering the great world. 
She felt as if a new life had awoke for her. Mr. Bradford’s house 
was situated on an eminence overlooking the business part of the 
city. As Alice looked from her window that night over the long 
rows of buildings, with their many twinkling lights, and thought of 
the passions, the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, the loves and 
hates that must dwell therein, a new interest awoke in her kind. 


Alice’s destiny. 


9 


Early the next morning she sprang from her bed and agam rushed to 
the window. The city, long before aroused to busy life, lay bathed 
in golden sunlight at her feet; in the distance sparkled the majestic 
Powhatan river,* while on the left the peaks of Otter towered to the 
sky. 

A week sufficed to equip Alice with new dresses and to introduce 
her to the best society in . During October the wedding sea- 

son commenced, and Alice figured at a large wedding party quite to 
Mrs. Bradford’s satisfaction. The same grace which she had drawn 
from tree and fiower in the country she now drew from pictures and 
statuettes and graceful furniture, with ail the other accessories of re- 
fined town life. Alice soon formed the acquaintance of quite a num- 
ber of gentlemen, and might have tancieu that she had found her 
destiny among them but for their number and variety. 

Captain Ellis, with his dark eyes, dignified bearing and reserved 
manner looked the “Corsair,” and Mr. Eobertson, with his tall, un- 
gainly figure and pleasant eye, did not look the orator and poet that 
Alice fancied him. And then there was the merry young W oodville 
and the dashing Vivian; “so like Murat,” thought Alice, but she had 
not settled in her mind who was most the hero when a new star ap- 
peared whose brilliancy obscured all lesser lights. Count bchomberg, 
a Polish refugee, appeared on the scene of action, He wished to give 
Prench lessons “to make an existence,” he observed in classic Eng- 
lish, and Alice became one of a party of young ladies to learn h'rench 
and fall in love with the banished hero. Count ISchomberg was a 
magnificent-looking man, tall, fair, with blue eyes and broad, ample 
brow, and a noble military air which quite threw the “Corsair” in the 
shade. Alice’s imagination immediately tastened itself on this man, 
a foreigner, a Pole, noble, a refugee, poor, lonely, handsome, gifted. 
O, is not this a man that a woman might joy to live and die for! 
But in the midst of this dream a thought struck her, “ I shall have 
to go home after a while and he may not love me — what would I do? ” 
And then there came to her mind some halt-forgotten words of an 
old novel, perhaps; it may be, whispered in her ear by a good angel, 
“ Who shall say to the roused waves of human passion, ‘so far shall 
ye go and no farther,’ ” and Alice determined not to yield her heart 
unasked to the Count. At the next recitation there was something 
in the Count’s manner as he spoke to one of the young ladies that 
riveted Alice’s attention. “She is far more beautiful than 1,” thought 


* ludian name of James river. 


10 


Alice’s destii^y. 


Alice, as her eye followed the Count’s as it rested on the perfect face; 
“he will love her and not me,” and her spirit rose to strengthen it- 
self in her resolve. But the effort to guard her heart wearied her 
and induced that state of feeling which comes so soon to the imagi- 
native and sensitive. “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” resounded 
in her ears, and for the first time in her life she turned to her Bible 
with heart-felt interest. “But I must love,” she thought. “It is 
here, the teeling, the desire; but who loves me except Dick Wood- 
ville and he is not clever, only caught by my sprightliness; but he is 
rich and of good family and 1 may marry him; yes, that is the way 
of the world. But, what shall I do with my heart? ” 

“What shall 1 do?” she thought. “0!” as a gleam of light 
flashed across her darkness, “I will be a philanthropist; he whom I 
could worship will not love me, but I can love him and all others; 
nothing can keep me from that. But this love which I have wanted 
ail my life, I must have it some time — some time before I die — or I 
shall die rebellious.” 

Years after, in the long heart-sickness of hope deferred, Alice re- 
membered these sinful words and wondered if she was suffering their 
penalty. Time, with its quick-flitting wing, passed on and one morn- 
ing the town was shocked by a rumor of Count Schom berg’s sudden 
death, and by his own hand ! (jentlemen rushed to his room — it was 
time. There lay the noble, gallant-looking man — dead — self-slaugh- 
tered — a wound in his fair, peerless temple. A few, calm, clear lines 
giving the cause — disappointment, poverty, weariness of life — the ball 
trimmed to fit the pistol — all testifying to the deliberateness of the 
deed. None in all that city felt as Alice. This deed, like a lightning 
flash, illumined the world around her. Sorrow for his death - -his 
suicide — her own escape from woe inexpressible — life’s tragedy and 
solemn meaning — a yearning desire to escape for refuge to something 
ere the avalanche broke over her head — all possessed her soul by turns. 
“And this is life,” she thought, as the dreams of a few months before 
flashed in sudden contrast before her mind. The season of Lent was 
drawing near. Brought up in the country Alice had never been in 
the habit of attending the regular services of the Church of her 
fathers, but they came now with peculiar fitness to her troubled heart. 
She was soothed by withdrawing from the world, for of late its glitter 
and falseness had struck with painful discord on the jarred chords of 
her spirit. The solemn tones of the organ, the “ dim, religious light ” 
of the Gothic church, the white-robed minister, with his spiritual face- 


Alice’s dbstint. 


11 


and earnest tones, greatly impressed her imagination and the heart so 
quickly grown world-weary. ‘‘When life’s long Lent is over,” 
thought she, “I hope to be happy, but not in this sin-shadowed 
world, for ‘ the trail of the serpent is over it all.’ ” One night at the 
beginning of Passion-week she went to church without more serious 
thoughts than usual. Mr. Henderson, the good minister, had been 
earnestly laboring for the benefit of his congregation during Lent, 
and not with the effect that he had hoped. To-night the sermon was 
from the prophecy of Hosea, “How shall I give thee up;” “and real- 
ize!” said Alice, writing to Lily afterwards of it, “the yearnings of a 
Christian pastor to save a beloved people in that sermon.” Alice had 
never before felt so thoroughly impressed and aroused. “ I can bear 
it no longer — this world — tnis wearmess,” she thought, and quickly 
made up her mind to see the minister. After service Alice went di- 
rectly to Mrs. Henderson, the minister’s wife, and asked if her hus- 
band would be at home the next morning. Mrs. Henderson replied 
that he would, and Alice said: “Tell him I will call and see him at 
9 o’clock to-morrow morning.” Her first feeling on waking was one 
of regret that she had made the appointment, but as she had made it 
she determined to keep it. 

The sun shown brightly through the half-open blinds of Mr. Hen- 
derson’s study, revealmg a glimpse of sky and river and hill as Alice 
entered. Mr. Henderson was bending over a table covered with the- 
ological works, among which Alice’s eye, ever open to books if shut 
to other things, discerned a Bible, a prayer-book, and a Creek Tester 
ment. “My dear child,” said Mr. Henderson, looking up as she en- 
tered, and advancing with extended hand to meet her, “ my wife gave 
me your message and i remained in on purpose to see you.” This 
cordial, kind greeting dispelled Alice’s fears as quickly as the sun, 
which shone m at the window, had done the morning fog; she told 
the whole of the experiences of the last two months; her weariness 
of the world, and yearning for something better; the shock she had 
felt at Count Schomberg’s death, repressing only the deeper interest 
slie liad felt in him. Mr. Henderson listened with close attention. 
“What religious instruction have you had?” he asked, as Alice 
ceased and sat with earnest eyes and trembling lips awaiting his reply. 

“Mammy — my black mammy — taught me the Lord’s Prayer,” said 
Alice, “and Mrs. Vaughan, my godmother, heard me say the Cate- 
chism sometimes, and lent me good books, ‘ The Lady of the Manor ’ 
and ‘The Young Christian,’ and books like that, but I am sorry to 


12 


Alice’s destiny. 


say I only read the story part of ‘ The Lady of the Manor,’ and ‘ The 
Young Christian’ I hardly read at all.” 

“What -books have you read?’’ asked Mr. Henderson. 

“Bulwer most, for I liked him best,” replied Alice, with an instinc- 
ive feeling that Mr. Henderson would be shocked, but determined to 
speak the truth at all hazards, “ and all the novels and tales I could 
get, and a good deal of poetry.” 

“I am preparing a class for confirmation,” said Mr. Henderson, af- 
ter a short pause, “which I think it would be well for you to join. I 
expect the Bishop in a few days and I would like for you to be one 
of the number that I present to him for confirmation.” 

“0, no!” said Alice, “I could not be confirmed yet; I am not wor- 
thy; I could not go to the holy communion.” 

“My dear child,” said Mr. Henderson, “you desire to serve God; 
that is the beginning of conversion. You are weary of the world and 
of sin. It is such that our blessed Lord calls to Him. You need 
that this prayer should be said over you,” and closing his eyes and 
raising his hands he prayed, “ Defend, 0 Lord, this Thy child with 
Thy Iieavenly grace, that she may continue Thine forever, and daily 
increase in Thy Holy Spirit more and more, until she come unto 
Thy everlasting kingdom. Amen.” 

“I will think about it,” said Alice, after a short silence, “and let 
you know my decision.” 

“Do so,” said Mr. Henderson, “and pray to God for our blessed 
Saviours sake to guide you, and 1 will pray for you. God bless you.” 

That afternoon Alice went to her room and, kneeling down, prayed 
as Mr. Henderson had directed her. She then took her seat near a 
window and looking out on the sky thought of Heaven and peace 
and rest. A feeling of tranquil joy fell over her soul. “1 feel now 
that I can be confirmed,” she thought. 

Alice's mind reached an ecstatic state on the night of the confirm- 
ation. “I felt,” she wrote to Lily, “that if 1 had been hurtU for my 
divine Redeemer's sake i would not have felt the flames." She 
thought of herself as a bride, the bride of Christ, and apart from the 
world. There seemed such bliss to her in the liie for Heaven, such 
an awakening to new thoughts and purposes. Mr. Henderson also 
filled a large place in her imagination; in lus white robes and with 
his pale, pure face he looked to tier like an angel of light. Instinct- 
ively she knelt at confirmation near to him, and with some feeling 
of prostration before him. 


ALICE S DE8TINY. 


18 


“Did you noticp Alice’s face to-niglifc?” said Edward Bradford to 
his wife, as they reached their room. “She looked as if she had a 
glimpse of the third heaven.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradford,” I saw that she had a rapt look. And 
did you notice how plain her dress was, and that she had taken olf 
her ear-rings? I remonstrated with her about it before going to 
church, and told her I did not think our religion required us to go to 
such extremes; but she replied that she could not go up to the chancel 
and renounce the pomps and vanities of this wicked world dressed in 
the height of fashion. I would shrink from being a leader of fashion, 
Edward, but I think it a woman’s duty to look as well as she can,” 
added Mrs. Bradford, who had been a belle before her marriage, with 
a glance at the mirror. “A duty which you scrupulously fulfill,” 
said her husband, drawing her to his knee; “but Katie,” he added, 
more seriously, “you had better let Alice alone. If you oppose her 
you will stir up her conscience to greater extremes. Let her alone 
and any excess will wear itself out, for she has a streak of good sense, 
that same little sister of mine, with all her romance. At any rate 
plain dress is not a common fault in the church nowadays.” 

In pursuance of this wise advice Alice was left to dress plainly, to 
remain in her own room, to attend church early and late, and to min- 
ister to the poor and suffering without any obstacle being thrown in 
her way. The world of fashion soon found that she had passed be- 
yond its circle. Even Mr. Richard Woodville, her warmest admirer, 
ceased his visits when he discerned that she was trying to elevate him 
to her own plane of action without any mixture of more earthly feel- 
ing. But Alice’s thoughts soon turned towards her home. Much as 
she regretted leaving her pastor and the church, she felt that duty 
called her to her father, her brother, the servants, and the poor in her 
own neighborhood. Besides, she had heard through letters from Col- 
onel Bradford and Charlie (for Lily said little of herself) that her 
friend’s health seemed to be failing. So, notwithstanding Mrs. Brad- 
ford’s opposition, who hoped that Alice’s exclusive devotion to her 
new life would abate in time for her to secure “ an excellent match,” 
a letter was dispatched in April for Charlie to come for her. 

The afternoon before Alice left, Mr. Henderson called to bid her 
good-bye. He found her alone, Mrs. Bradford having gone out to 
make some parting purchases for her. The sweet April sun shone in 
at the window, and a little vase of violets shed fragrance around. 
Alice spoke unreservedly to her good pastor. 


14 


THE NEW LIFE. 


“ I have long wished,” she said, “ for some one to whom I could ex- 
press all my thoughts and feelings; some one to sympathize with me 
perfectly. And now I feel that I have found Him. I have found the 
Man,” she added, her eyes lighting and her color deepening. “ My 
thoughts will no more go forth, like Noah’s dove, and find no resting- 
place. God seems to me yet afar off, but in Christ shall every want 
be satisfied. Oh! Mr. Henderson, it will be so easy, so delightful to 
work for Him among the ignorant and poor and sick. You must pay 
us a visit next summer, and I will take you to see my poor people, 
just as the ladies do in the good books you have lent me,” she said, 
smiling, “and I will no more wish to be loved and to have an object 
in life.” 

Mr. Henderson looked with deep interest on the young Christian 
enthusiast, and thought that he had never seen a greater promise for 
early, devoted piety. 

“ Scarcely more than a child,” he thought, “ and with a child’s 
openness. Surely the taint of our fallen nature has touched her 
lightly.” 

Did no thought awake in his mind that something was lacking 
here? That this was rather the yearning of the soul for love and 
sympathy — the exaltation of the imagination directed to the loftiest 
objects of contemplation, than the need of a sinner for her Saviour? 
In such a soil will not the seeds of self-righteousness spring? Well 
is it that our discipline is in His hands whose knowledge of the hu- 
man heart cannot err. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE NEW LIFE. 

“ O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 

Far as the breese can bear the billows’ foam, 

Survey our empire and behold our home 1” — Byron, 

These lines, from one of Alice’s favorite poems, (in the old time 
that had passed away,) suggested by her free, joyous, bird-on-the-wing 
feeling, fioated through her brain as the cars bore her rapidly home- 
ward. She sat near an open window, watching the lovely flitting 
landscape of her native State, her thoughts roaming from earth to 
heaven, from heaven to earth; now thinking of the wondrous power 


THE NEW LIFE. 


15 


of steam and of its instrumentality in carrying the everlasting Gos- 
pel to the ends of the earth; now watching the shadowy, ethereal- 
looking wire that traversed the air in a line with a railroad, and thinking 
of the destinies of nations and of individuals that daily flashed over 
it. Then looking at the budding trees, she thought that they con- 
tained a fairer promise for her than ever before, typical of the new 
life of hope and faith and love. And now turning with deep interest 
to the passengers as they came and went, thinking that all were jour- 
neying together to the bourne from whence no traveller returns, and 
ottering with graceful courtesy little attentions to strangers or re- 
sponding to those offered her. Charlie, in the meantime, was looking 
over the daily papers, or conversing with gentlemen on the affairs of 
country, growing more serious, or lingering in the smoking-car over 
his cigar, , he, too, dreaming of what the future might have in store 
for him, and resolving that himself and all that was his should be 
given, if need be, to his own, his native State. But the last station 
is reached, the carriage wdth Uncle Jack’s kindly black face is wait- 
ing, and Arberius — dubbed by Charlie the “Roman General” — is 
grinning at the door, and the brother and sister are rapidly driven 
home. 

“How lovely everything looks!” exclaimed Alice, as they reached 
the gate, and the green, undulating yard, with its beautiful trees and 
lights and shadows flickering across it, is before them. 

“ I am glad to see that town has not turned your head, my little 
sister,” said Charlie, warmly. 

“0, Charlie!” said Alice, reproachfully, “do you suppose that any 
place could be as lovely to me as Cooleemee?” 

The Colonel, Mr. Vaughan, and Lily are in the porch; mammy, 
Avith glossiest yellow bandana turban and whitest kerchief crossed on 
her breast, and Celia, Alice’s own maid, are in the background as the 
carriage drives to the door, and in a moment Alice is in papa’s arms. 
A glance at Lily’s face, and Alice, although prepared by Charlie to see 
a change in her friend, can scarcely restrain her tears as she sees the 
thin face and hears the hollow cough. But Lily looks cheerfully into 
her eyes and speaks almost gaily. Mr. Vaughan’s face wears a deeper 
and more subdued expression than usual, and Alice’s heart warmed 
toward him as she noted his quick look of recognition of her feelings 
as she met Lily. One by one the servants came flocking in to shake 
hands with Miss Alice. “What a fleld for usefulness; white to the 
harvest,” thought Alice, as she glanced at the dusky faces of all 


16 


THE NEW LIFE. 


shades and ages that gathered around her. The Colonel was glad to 
have his daughter at home again, but did not seem to be well, and 
Alice’s heart smote her at the thought of having been so long absent, 
as she observed that his figure was more bowed than she had seen it 
before. ‘‘Bui I will not leave him again,” she thought; ’‘my duty, 
my work is here.” And work was soon begun in earnest. Every 
Sunday afternoon the servants, all who would come, were assembled 
in the dining-room for religious instruction. Mammy attended these 
services as due to Alice and for an example to the younger ones, 
though all religious teaching, apart from predestination and inuner- 
sion was, in her eyes, rank heresy; but with a charity that might do 
honor to more enlightened controversialists she admitted, “As for 
Miss Alice, the chile does the best she knows, so far as the Lord has 
opened her eyes.” A Sunday-school was opened in the morning in 
the school-house, near by, for the benefit of the children in the neigh- 
borhood, and Alice and Lily might often be seen on horseback, with 
Arberius in attendance, or walking, with Celia carrying a large basket, 
on their visits to the poor and sick around them . In i hese expeditions 
they were sometimes joined by Mr. Vaughan. \7ho, however, said and 
did little except to observe with an attentive eye. Lily watched the 
change in her friend with surprise and admiration. To her it seemed 
as if Alice had far outstripped her in the heavenly race, while in 
reality Lily possessed a deeper knowledge of herself and a truer faith 
than Alice, although Alice, from the high-pitch of her mental facul- 
ties, had a clearer perception of right, a less prejudiced and more 
comprehensive view of things than Lily, which Lily perceived, and 
looked up to her friend as a guide. In politics Lily was States Rights, 
and, like John Randolph, 

“ Beyond Virginia’s border-line 
Her patriotism perished.” 

Alice, on the contrary, was devoted to the Union. “Daughter of 
the Republic,” she claimed to be, though except from the conversa- 
tion of the gentlemen neither of them knew much about politics. 

One brighc morning, about the last of May, Albert and Lily rode 
over to Cooleemee. Mammy met them, saying that the Colonel and 
Charlie were in the low-grounds and was about dispatching a little 
negro boy, who was ranging around at large, after Alice, who she said 
had taken her books and gone into the garden, when Lily stopped 
her, saying they would go themselves and find Alice. “ I’m glad 
they’re come,” soliloquized Mammy as the brother and sister turned 
off, “for that chile studies too much.” Mammy used the word 


THE NEW LIEE. 17 

studies in the sense of thinks, and was all unconscious that she was 
quoting Shakspeare. 

“I know where to find Alice,” said Lily, as they entered the gul- 
den, “near her mother’s grave; that is her favorite spot.” At a 
sudden turn in the shrubbery Alice was before them. “Look,” whis- 
pered Ldy, stopping. Dressed in a morning wrapper of pure white 
muslin, whose loose folds fell gracefully around her figure, with one 
little slippered foot thrown out on the grass, her hat on the ground 
beside here, and her hair, according to her wont when alone, loosened 
from its confinement and falling over her shoulders, Alice sat on a 
rustic seat beneath a weeping-willow, so intently reading that she did 
not hear their approach. Several large volumes lay on the seat be- 
side her. The lighter green of the weeping- willow, through whose 
delicate tracery the light fell in soft rays, contrasting with the darker 
green of the shrubbery around, formed the background of the pic- 
ture. In a moment Alice, roused by that subtle instinct which tells 
us when we are watched, lifted her head. 

“0, what a pity to spoil such a picture ! ” said Lily, starting for- 
ward. “ One would think you were sitting to a painter, Alice, or 
acting a tableau.” 

“What is this?” said Albert, drawing from her the book in her 
hand, “Pearson on the Creed.” “Why, Alice, are you going to study 
theology? And what are these?” stooping for the books on the 
bench, “Knapp; Horne’s Introduction.” “Why this exceeds Lady 
Jane Grey’s reading the classics while the rest of the court went 
hunting. Papa and Charlie overlooking the hands in the plantation 
and Alice alone in the garden reading theology!” 

“Alice is studying tor the ministry,” said Lily; “though she does 
profess not to believe in woman’s rights.” 

“Laugh at me if you will,” said Alice, her cheek flushing, “but I 
am obliged to study about these things. I do not doubt the truth of 
the Christian religion, and my church satisfies my wants and my 
taste; but suppose I had been born a heathen or a Mohammedan — 
would it have been right for me to accept their faith without investi- 
gation ? And the Bible says we must be able to give to every man 
that asketh us a reason for the hope that is in us.” 

“But, my dear child,” said Mr. Vaughan, “you don’t know what a 
task you are taking on yourself. Why don’t you ask Mr. Moore to 
tell you what you want to know?” 

“ Because I feel that I am obliged to find out for myself,” replied 


18 


THE HEW LIFE. 


Alice. “And besides, 1 don’t like Mr. Moore as you and Lily do. He 
seems to me so cold, and has so few impulses, and knocks me down 
with his common-sense.” 

“You do him injustice,” said Lily, warmly. “He staid with us 
nearly all the time while you were gone, for you know he says he 
don’t like to stay where there is no woman, and he has one of the 
warmest, truest hearts I ever knew. You don’t know him, Alice.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Alice. “ But anyway 1 must study out these 
things for myself. Mr. Moore would give me a one-sided view of 
them, and I want the many-sided. 1 want to read the best of every- 
thing on a question that interests me. But, Lily darling, you are 
tired. Let us go in the house.” 

“Where did you get these books, Alice?” said Mr. Vaughan, as 
they walked slowly through the winding shrubbery. 

“On the top shelf of the book-case,” said Alice, “moth-eaten and 
covered with dust. They belonged to Uncle Edward, who, you know, 
died young, while preparing for the ministry.” 

“It is a subject that has long interested me,” said Mr. Vaughan, 
gravely, “and but for my mother’s opposition, who thought the life 
would not suit me, I should have studied for the ministry. I have 
some books, Alice, that you would perhaps like to read, and 1 should 
like to borrow some of yours.” 

“ Why don’t he get Mr. Moore to solve his difficulties, as he advises 
me to do?” whispered Alice to Lily. 

“ Because he’s a man, I suppose,” returned Lily. 

After this the exchange of books and thoughts between Mr. 
Vaughan and Alice on theological questions became frequent. Alice 
was surprised to find in him a depth of feeling and delicacy of senti- 
ment of which she had no idea, and he was not the less surprised at 
the thoughtfulness of the imaginative girl whose zeal in the religious 
life, he had predicted, would soon wear itself out. Strange is it, this 
awakening to the true being of those we have known all our lives — 
stranger than the unfolding of new characters! In fact, Alice’s 
whole nature was developing, aroused from its dreamy state by the 
new principle which had entered her life— shall we not say by the 
power of the Spirit of Grod ? She very soon became conscious of the 
evil lying within im uncontrolled imagination, and of the injury done 
to herself by its undue cultivation, or rather, by its want of balance 
in the neglect of other powers. But under the influence of the new 
principle her imagination became more lofty and intense; the cobwebs 


THE NEW LIFE. 


19 


of false sentiment were brushed from her heart, and stronger, deeper 
feelings sprung up within. Ever poetical in her tastes and imagina- 
tion, she had never attempted to write poetry; but now thought and 
feeling yearned to find vent in expression, and at intervals verses 
were produced, some of them springing into life with an ecstatic 
flash, which Lily, sole critic, thought only equaled by L. E. L. and 
Mrs. H emans. Her conscience, too, became exceedingly sensitive, 
especially to the least shade of untruth; and exaggerations in the 
past revived and weighed heavily on her mind. She grew morbid in 
dwelling on them, and felt that they must be retracted; that they 
existed somewhere until they were. One day she took a new book 
down from the book-case — one new to her — Dick’s Christian ‘Phi- 
losopher.” Alice had only studied astronomy a little, and carelessly, 
at school. She read now, as if for the first time, of the glories and 
wonders of the starry heavens. As her imagination dilated and ex- 
panded before the mighty revelation that filled it and then faltered, 
unable to sustain its greatness, the thought suddenly occurred to 
her, “ I cannot believe that the Creator of all this became a man to 
die — I cannot believe that Christ is God.” This thought gave her 
intense anguish. She felt as if it was a great sin, and yet she could 
not get rid of it. It fastened itself on her mind with unshaken te- 
nacity, and gave her the greatest distress. After struggling with it 
for a few days she wrote to Mr. Henderson, who replied, expressing 
the tenderest sympathy, and telling her she was suffering from the 
assaults of the Evil One; from those fiery darts to which all Chris- 
tians were at times subjected. Alice could say nothing against this 
opinion; it was scriptural and reasonable; but there was no reasoning 
with her sensitive heart and conscience and excited imagination. 
The distressing thoughts would not leave her, or if they did they re- 
turned again, and then for relief she took Lily into her confidence. 
Lily contemplated with fear and awe a state of mind to which she 
was a stranger. She had known difficulties — struggles with her- 
self — but nothing like this. She insisted that Alice should acquaint 
Mr. Moore with her troubles, but Alice refused to do so: “To think 
of doling out your heart’s blood, drop by drop, to one who would not 
sympathize with you,” she said. Lily then proposed that she should 
talk with her brother, Albert. “ You and brother seem to get on so 
well in your theological discussions,” she said, “why can’t you tell 
him this difficulty? And it is more proper that you should, Alice, 
because I am quite sure that he will yet be a minister, and will have 


20 


THE HEW LIFE. 


distressed consciences to deal with.” Alice rejected this advice also, 
without giving her reason. She had felt of late that she was grow- 
ing to depend too much on Mr. Vaughan. There was an atmosphere 
of peace and calm about him that reached even her troubled spirit. 
His strong, firm will and clear, sound judgment seemed to her pillars 
of granite on which to repose her weakness. With Alice’s quick in- 
stinct she saw her danger. She did not wish to love Albert Vaughan ; 
he was not her Ideal, and her nature revolted at the thought of shar- 
ing a heart filled with the life-long memory of another love. I 
must try and work out my difficulties by myself,” she thought. “ 0 
life! life! I must learn to walk alone.” 

Lily told her brother of Alice’s trouble, and he was deeply touched 
to hear it. The earnestness, feeling, and quickness of intellect man- 
ifested by Alice in their late conversations had greatly surprised him. 
And now he was startled to find that no other woman had ever inter- 
ested him so much since the loss of his early love. Albert Vaughan 
had hoped — especially of late — that he might love again, but not this 
sort of woman. Alice was too imaginative and impulsive; her edu- 
cation had been too irregular; she was not his dream of a wife. Lily 
had recently shown him some of Alice’s poetry, in which he thought 
he recognized marks of true genius; let women write if prompted by 
nature — he had no objection — but his tvife would not be so prompt el. 
Except to God, she would have no existence independent of his; all 
that was aspiring in her intellect would be merged into sympathy 
with his own; he would be her lord, home her Eden, with no life be- 
yond its walls except that of the Christian lady in society, and the 
Christian woman to the suffering and poor. “With sucli indepen- 
dence of thought she will come out of her troubles herself,” he said 
to himself, and endeavored to dismiss Alice from his mind. 

Things grew worse with Alice. Horrible thoughts and blasphe- 
mies assailed her mind, following her everywhere, from which there 
was no escape. Her heart, too, seemed to her a cage of unclean 
birds — a nest of evil things — serpents starting up within that could 
not be kept down. “Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see 
God,” said she to herself one day, as she entered her room and locked 
the door; “Is it possible that I can be saved? ’* And then came the 
thought, “Perhaps I have committed the unpardonable sin.” She 
had no clear conception of what this sin is, but her mind and con- 
science were in a state to receive anything. The most trifling dere- 
liction was magnified into a mammoth sin by her excited imagination 


THE NEW LIFE. 


21 


and morbid conscience. All this time Alice mechanically performed 
the duties which devolved upon her. She kept up her Sunday-school 
and instructed the servants as usual, partly because she thought it 
right and had no desire to give it up. But she talked less of relig- 
ion; she had taken a high stand at first, and it tried her not to be 
able to keep up to it. She had, without wilfully intending it, 
though she felt in some degree conscious of it, exaggerated her com- 
fort and joy in religion, and knew not how to draw back. Her father 
observed that she Wiis more quiet than usual, but thought that ‘‘the 
child missed the excitement of town life,” and proposed that she 
should write and invite some of her town friends to pass the summer 
with her, from which Alice shrank almost with terror. Neither did 
her brother’s healthful, clear intellect approximate the truth: “Alice’s 
enthusiasm is burning itself out,” he thought, “ she will settle down 
into a sober woman after awhile.” 

One day, feeling unusually oppressed, she suddenly determined to 
tell her troubles to Albert Vaughan. 

Rising, she rang the bell, ordered her horse, and prepared for her 
ride. Going down stairs, she gave some directions about housekeep- 
ing to Mammy, and telling Colonel Bradford she was going over to 
spend the day with Lily, she mounted her horse, and, followed by 
Arberius, galloped off. Lily met her at the door. 

“Where is your brother? I have concluded to follow your advice 
and talk with him, Lily,” said Alice. 

“You will find him in the library,” said Lily, looking at her wist- 
fully. “Come to me, darling, in my room, when you get through.” 

The door of the library was open, and Alice paused for a moment 
before entering. Mr. Vaughan was seated by an open window, 
through which clambered the sweet June roses, reading a book, which 
Alice recognized to be one of the theological works she had lent him. 
He did not hear Alice’s light footstep, but looked up as her figure 
darkened the door. 

“At your occupation,” said he, half smiling, as he rose to greet her; 
“and to say the truth, Alice, I do not believe I shall ever be satisfied 
unless I study for the ministry.” 

“ I have thought that nothing less would satisfy me, if I were a 
man,” said Alice; “and, Mr. Vaughan, if you are going to be a min- 
ister, it is more appropriate that 1 should come to you for advice. 
There is no one else to whom I can go, and I fear that I will lose my 
reason if this state of things continues.” 


22 


THE NEW LIFE. 


“ I will be very glad to do anything in my power to help you,” said 
Mr. Vaughan, his face coloring slightly. 

Beginning at the first, Alice told him the whole — all that was pos- 
sible for her to tell mortal man. She did not spare herself, but with 
unfiinching truth lay the whole terrible secret bare, from the day 
when the fearful doubts of the divinity of Christ first assailed her 
mind; the awful thoughts and suggestions to which she had been 
subjected; her morbidness of conscience — the indwelling corruption 
of her heart. Besides this there was an unconscious revelation of 
herself — the yearnings of a gifted imagination and loving nature; 
the struggles of an acute and fine reason, which appealed in plaintive 
tones to the heart of her listener. 

“The delicate chain of thought so tangled,” thought he; “but it 
will clear again. By God’s help, I will strive to restore harmony to 
this exquisite Instrument.” Albert Vaughan knew human nature too 
well to expect ideal perfection in woman. He knew her to be a fallen 
being, like himself* training for eternity; a being given to man to 
rule over, guide, protect and love, and to soothe and help him in the 
confiict of life. “What might she be to a man she loved!” hashed 
across his mind, as Alice’s transparency of character, conscientious- 
ness, sensibility, and good sense also, one and another appeared in her 
disclosure. But he banished that thought for the time, and tried to 
think what would be for her good. 

“I have tried to tell you the truth,” said Alice, in conclusion; 
“and, now, what do you think I ought to do?” 

“I*must have more time to consider, Alice,” he said; “Init in the 
meantime read your Bible and pray as usual. Use the prayers of* the 
Liturgy in your private devotions; they will help to restore hcalth- 
fulness to your mind. Attend to all your duties, and be as much as 
possible with Lily. I hope you are relieved by this confidence in me,” 
said he, extending his hand to her as she rose to depart. 

“0, it is a relief!” replied Alice, earnestly, and she added tremu- 
lously, as she turned away, her long, dark lashes sweeping her pale 
cheek, “ I hope it does not make you esteem me less, Mr. Vaughan, 
knowing my weakness.” 

A great yearning sprang into life in Albert Vaughan’s soul to clasp 
her to his heart, but he repressed it, and said, quietly, “ I have known 
trials myself^ Alice, perhaps as great as yours in a different way, and 
confidence and openness rather increase esteem than lessen it;” and 
Alice disappeared. 


THE NEW LIFE. 


23 


A feeling of repose and peace stole over Alice’s heart as she left 
Albert Vaughan ; she had such entire confidence in him; something 
of the harmony of his own beautifully-disciplined character seemed 
to emanate fiom him and diffuse itself over her troubled soul. All 
that day she was brighter and more cheerful than Lily had seen her 
for a long time. But after she returned home and went to her room 
that night something of heart-ache mingled with the sweet influences 
of the day. The woman’s heart, unfilled as it was, and yearning to 
love and to bless, ,and yet undisciplined by time and patience, was 
rising in its strength and tending toward one object. 

“ He does not — will not — love me,” she murmured, through the 
hot tears as she turned on her restless pillow; “I must learn to sub- 
due and control it.” And closing her eyes and clasping her hands, 
she repeated the loving, soothing hymn — 

“ We would pee Jepus, for the shadows lengthen 
Across this little landscape of our life,” — 

and was soon sleeping quietly. 0, child! say not that religion has 
brought you no comfort, for even now her great, loving wings are 
overshadowing you. 

Both Albert Vaughan and Alice had put the thought of each other 
from their hearts, now to return with tenfold force. The picture of 
Alice, as she sat before him in the library, lovely, truthful, earnest, 
suffering, rose up constantly before his mind, and the strong heart 
and vivid imagination of the man long-repressed and brooding over 
the image of a dead love, awoke suddenly to new life as the living 
Alice, not the dead Mary, arose in warmth and beauty before him. 
In a day or two he proposed to Lily to ride over to Cooleemee, and 
the first look at Alice’s face, as she came forward to meet them, made 
him decide to speak at once. 

The revelation of a few days before had. so placed her character be- 
fore him that all its fair leaves lay open for him to read; and in the 
new lines around the sweet mouth he saw love — love for himself — 
silent, yet struggling there. The look of wounded feeling, of unsat- 
isfied affection, of hard-set self-control which we have all seen around 
the mouths of women— and, ye husbands! around the mouths of 
married women, and but for want of sympathy and tenderness and 
caresses on your part would not have been there — these had appeared 
on Alice’s face and made Albert Vaughan resolve by some action, if 
not then a declaration of love, to bring the sweet light of hope and 
love there instead. Alice met him with some embarrassment and 
fear; she had spoken so freely in that interview — what did he 


24 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


think of her? But his. quiet, gentle, respectful manner reassured 
her. There was not the most distant look of consciousness on his 
face, only more tenderness in his manner towards her than she had 
ever seen before, and something more knightly in his bearing. 

The hot summer day had quite enfeebled Lily and she did not ex- 
press her readiness to return home till late in the afternoon. Charlie 
went out with her to place her on her horse; Mr. Vaughan lingered, 
turning over some engravings. As Charlie and Lily disappeared in 
the hall, he turned to Alice, who stood awaiting his parting greet- 
ing; she looked up in his face and his eyes met hers; his whole face 
instantly lighted up with an expression impossible to mistake — love, 
joy, hope beamed from every feature; he did not speak, there was no 
need of speaking, but approached her and stood transfigured, radiant, 
before her. Alice felt her heart for a moment stand still, and then 
with a great bound take up a new song of life, and his arms closed 
around her as if never to loosen their hold, and the manly lips around 
which there seemed to hover a halo met her own in one long kiss of 
mute betrothal. 


CHAPTER V. 

HOPES AND FEARS. 

“ And his heart throbbed with exquisite bliss,” are said to be the 
last words that Thackeray wrote; he did not live to say hfmj long it 
thus throbbed. A lovely young Southern girl once said to the writer: 
“We must suffer before we can be happy.” Lord Bacon says “the 
end of suffering as a moral discipline is to enable us to bear unclouded 
happiness.” Alice unconsciously realized this as she sat in her room 
alone that night after Albert Vaughan had left. A few hours before 
she would have thought that all that life could give of joy would be 
hers could she know that he loved her. And for one brief moment, 
when heart sprang to heart in that embrace, such is the mighty 
power of love, her “ heart throbbed with exquisite bliss.” But her 
undisciplined soul, dimly struggling to the consciousness of its na- 
ture, warfare and destiny, was unprepared for joy now. Contempla- 
ting her situation as betrothed, comparing Albert Vaughan with her 
ideal lover, thinking of his long love for his lost Mary, she almost 


HOPES AND FEAES. 


25 


shrank from the position in which she so suddenly found herself. 
“ But this is wrong,” she said, as her inconsistency flashed across her 
mind; “I should be so thankful to God for giving me such a friend 
and guide as he will be; away with idle dreams and impossibilities. 
As for his first love it is right, it is just that he should always love 
her; they will be together forever in heaven and it is right that he 
should always love her here; but, 0, it is hard for me to bear, for me 
to bring my heart to be willing to it! God help me by His Spirit!” 

But with the morning came new doubts and difliculties — those of 
the mirid instead of the heart. “ 1 have come to no conclusion,” 
thought Alice, “as to my faith; my mind is tossed and upturned; 1 
know not who is right — Romans, Greeks, Protestants — 1 must study 
till I decide. It is not right that 1 should accept the Episcopalian 
Church just because I was born in it, and 1 was so anxious to find the 
truth — the truth only — at all risks and hazards, at the sacrifice of 
everything, and now I will be influenced by my love for Albert 
V aughan and his love for me ; and he is going to study for the min- 
istry, and if the Roman Catholics are right, he ought not to marry. 
What shall 1 do?” “And Jesus had compassion on him,” came into 
her mind. “My precious Saviour? 1 know he has compassion on 
me, his poor child,” she thought. And Alice dressed and went down 
stairs and out on the lawn, and the sun shone as brightly and the 
birds sang as sweetly and all nature bloomed as richly and luxuriantly 
as if she were not there; God and the angels, Satan and his legions, 
alone witnesses of life’s tragedy. 

The family were at breakfast when a servant arrived bringing a 
note from Lily to Alice. “ I was so prostrated by the heat yesterday,” 
wrote Lily, “that brother has determined to take me to the Virginia 
Springs; 1 know you will come immediately and help me to get 
ready.” “Lily does not know,” thought Alice, “he has not told her.” 
And then she remembered what she had been too much engrossed to 
think of before, that she had heard Lily say she did not wish her 
brother to marry; that she thought he ought always to be true to 
the memory of his Mary, ( “ I used to think so too,” thought poor Alice, ) 
and that Lily had proposed to him “ that she would never marry if he 
would not.” There was nothing to be done, however, but to go, and 
feeling as if difliculties were thickening around her, Alice mounted 
White Surry, and attended by the unfailing Arberius, galloped through 
the low-grounds, crossed the deep but smooth ford of the river, and 
was soon cantering up the slope leading to Albert’s and Lily’s home. 


26 


HOPES AHD FEARS. 


Morotock, called from the Indian name of Dan river, was situated 
on a hill opposite Cooleemee, and possessed greater natural advan- 
tages than Cooleemee, although the grounds adjacent to the house 
were much less ornamented. The back porch commanded an exten- 
sive and beautiful view of the low-grounds in which Albert’s father 
had taken great pleasure and improved to a much higher degree than 
Colonel Bradford’s. The original family mansion was destroyed by 
fire, and the temporary one erected in its place had been added to as 
occasion required until it had grown into a long, rambling building, 
containing passages and porches at irregular intervals and rooms of 
sudden surprises, if not of magnificent distances. The arcliitecture 
of the house was certainly unique, and, by way of disfinction from 
more ambitious styles, might be denominated the Southern provincial. 
From the library window Albert Vaughan saw Alice riding up the 
hill, her slight figure in graceful contrast with the fine proportions of 
White Surry, and walked out to the gate to meet her and assist her 
in alighting from her horse. 

“Lily sent for me to come and help her get ready to go to the 
Springs,” said Alice, blushingly, as soon as the first greetings had 
passed. He did not speak, but there was a look in his eyes that reas- 
sured her; something in them that brought to her mind those words 
of our Lord, “It is I; be not afraid.” 

“ Lily was so unwell last night,” said Albert, as they walked to the 
door, “ that I have determined to start with her to the mountains 
without delay. I fear that I have not been sufficiently mindful of 
her of late, and I think it better to keep her as quiet as possible.” 

Alice understood, and while she acquiesced in the wisdom of the 
decision, it pained her to think that her most intimate friend could 
not know her heart’s dearest secret, “But it is better as it is,” she 
thought, as her recent perplexities flashed across her mind, and merely 
saying, “All our thoughts should centre now on Lily’s restoration to 
health,” she passed on to Lily’s room. 

Alice saw little of Mr. Vaughan during the few days of hurry and 
confusion attending Lily’s preparation for the Springs. His manner 
when they met was thoughtful and tender, but free from demonstra- 
tion. “Alice is not ready to be married yet,” he thought; “it will be 
better for her to think seriously of a wife’s duties first, and I know it 
will be a great trial to Lily for me to marry even Alice, of which she 
has never thought; I will spare her this trial till she is stronger, or” — 
he did not finish the sentence, for he was devoted to his young sister. 


HOPES AND FEARS. 27 

but his mother died of consumption, and one by one he had seen the 
fatal symptoms manifesting themselves in Lily. 

With the farewell pressure of her lover’s hand still lingering on 
her own, Alice went in the garden to promenade in her favorite walk 
and lay her plans for study during his absence. She had brought 
over some of Mr. Vaughan’s theological works, and hoped that her 
mind would be settled before his return. She determined that she 
w'ould begin at the beginning and go through the evidences of the 
existence of God — of the inspiration of the Bible — and see which of 
the Churches is most in accordance with the Bible. Alice knew too 
little of science to doubt the existence of her soul; like Cicero, she 
could more euvsily form a conception of the soul without the body 
than within it. Day by day she shut herself in her room alone, con- 
templating the mightiest thoughts that belong to man, or walked in 
the garden, exclaiming with Pciscal, “0 Veritas! Veritas!" Some- 
times she grew so weary in these studies that her physical strength 
was exhausted, and she would be obliged to lie down and rest. She 
gave the earlier hours of the morning to them when her father and 
Charlie were out riding in the plantation. 

In the meantime letters arrived from Albert and Lily. Lily wrote 
little, as it fatigued her to write, but she was better, she said, and then 
launched into enthusiastic praises of the glorious mountain scenery. 
“I should like to die on one of these mountains, Alice,” she wrote, 
“as you would say: 

‘The m8je;.ty of Nature would 
Receive my parting ghost.’ ” 

]\Ir. Vaughan’s letters were like himself, clear, calm, concise. 
Alice felt disappointed that there was nothing of the lover in them; 
a love-lett(^r had been one of the dreams of her girlhood, but she ac- 
knowledged that it was unreasonable in her to feel so under the^ cir- 
stances. 

On fh(3 whole, Alice thought she was getting on pretty well with 
luw studies; light was breaking, but tis her imagination grew stronger 
and more daring in its investigations she was astonished at the states 
of mind into which she would get at times. It seemed to her as if 
her mijul could compass the universe; there was a buoyancy, a light- 
ness, a Ireedom and activity of thought of which she had known 
nothing comparable before. In one of these ecstatic states she pro- 
jected a ])oem, a long, comprehensive, Christian poem — nothing 
seemed to her impossible then. The yearning for expression which 


38 


HOPES AND PEARS. 


belongs to genius came on her in full power, and rapt, absorbed, for 
several days Alice actually forget her lover. 

Lord Lytton has well indicated this state of mind in “ Zanoni,” 
in the character of Clarence Glyndon; when his mind became ex- 
cited in reference to the mysterious and spiritual, the girl of his love 
forgotten — left behind — the empire of feeling merged in the 
epipire of thought. And in the “ Antigone of Sophocles,” we find 
even in a conception of woman by a heathen that it is not in her 
ferewell to the unfulfilled hopes of life that the spirit ot Antigone 
reaches its greatest height, but in a grand wail over the violation of 
the “unwritten and immovable laws of the gods.” When Alice 
came back s-gain partially to the things of earth her love for Albert 
Vaughan and his for her seemed more like a dream than a reality. 
As his quiet, practical letters, one after another, reached her, she al- 
most began to think she had been mistaken in thinking that he loved 
her. Knowing him from childhood he had sometimes kissed her on 
meeting and parting. “And might not that embrace be one of 
brotherly affection and pity for my trials ? ” she thought. But her 
heart refused assent to this doubt of the mind. “ Anyway,” she said 
to herself, “I will write Lily of this plan of my book, of what I wish 
my life to be;, if he does love me it is right that he should know it,” 
and, taking her desk and seating herself at the window overlooking 
the garden, she commenced, — 

“ Lily, darling, I have told you how I used to feel sometimes when 
I came down in the morning and looked up at the picture of Shaks- 
peare above papa’s mantel ; ‘ this thought, this feeling — here — what 
shall I do with it?’ ‘Give it to God’ has long been my reply, but 
how I did not clearly see. I have wished for fame; no, not fame, 
sympathy^ and yearned — so yearned — for love. But I determined to 
sacrifice all, if God called me to it, sympathy and human love to 
Him. Lily, it seems to me a kind of reward for this that I should be 
so happy now. You remember the states I used to get in when I 
looked, you said, as if I could fly; but they were physical, electrical, 
perhaps, and came on a bright summer’s or a clear winter’s morning. 
Lily, what the body felt then the mind feels now. 0 ! it seems in 
that divine fancy of the ancients as if ‘the wings were restored to 
my soul,’ not to be restored after death, but given back now. Dar- 
ling, I have planned a poem — a long poem — in which I hope to glo- 
rify God and do some good to the world, and find my own loftiest 
creative power and delight in so doing. It will be something after 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


29 


the manner of ‘Paradise Lost.’ Now, Lily, don’t laugh; I don’t say 
that it will be equal to it. But, darling, if you could know how I 
feel sometimes: 

‘••Hook 

Arout d a world where I seem nothing, with 
J'houghts that rise within me, as they 
Could master all thiugs.’ " 

“ Lily, I do not feel as if I could fall from this height again. I will 
try to discharge every duty, but this must be for this world my truest 
life. Not even Iftve — the love of which I have dreamed — could call 
me back. 0 ! there is a bliss of the mind as well as of the heart. 
And, Lily, could I stoop from this high estate now, I would feel as 
that lost Pleiad must forever feel who gave up her place in the 
boundless sky for a mortal’s love. I could bear all things better than 
t;) fall below my own conception of what I might be and do. 

“Mammy, who delights in interrupting me, wants to know if the 
sauce for the apple-dumplings is seasoned right. I can’t go on now. 
My love to your brother. Hope that he is enjoying his trip. Ever, 
darling, your own — Alice.” 

This Utter fell on Albert Vaughan like a thunder-bolt. Since her 
confidence in him on that morning in the library he had thought that 
unoccupied feeling was Alice’s chief disease. “Give her the sweet 
love of wife and mother,” he mused, and a thrill shot through his 
heart, “ and the exquisite instrument will be restored to harmony.” 
While he was dreaming — for well-poised mind as his was, he too 
dreamed — that Alice’s character was fast adapting itself to the change 
that awaited her; that thoughts of the love of happy married life 
were subduing her imagination, and moulding her life; that a home 
for him was now the ultimatum of existence to her — behold! a letter 
in which he could s^ no trace of such purposes. The heart seemed 
comparatively dormant, the imagination only active, and instead of a 
wife — an author! And one who had visions of writing a poem like 
“Paradise Lost!” who compared herself to the lost Pleiad if she gave 
up such a project for a mortal’s love, and who held apple-dumplings 
in contempt, although she knew that apple-dumplings were a favorite 
dessert of his! 

Albart Vaughan was deeply disappointed; the haze of soft illusions 
which had gathered over his mind was rudely dispelled. “Fickle and 
flighty as I might have known she would be,” he thought, as he strode 
to and fro in his room that night, “and for me to fall into such a 
snare as this!” Ah, man! man! guard not your weak points only, 
but guard your strong ones also. 


go 


lily’s love. 


Albert Vaughan was unconsciously unjust to Alice; his own 
dreams had disappointed him more than her character; and besides 
his well-balanced mind could not sympathize with such an imagina- 
tion as hers. “Never another like my Mary,” rose sadly from the 
heart of the disappointed man. 


CHAPTER VI. 


lily’s love. 

It was with cold and averted looks that Albert Vaughan met Alice 
on his return from the Springs. Alice was not altogether unprepared 
for this, for no letter or message had reached her from him since her 
letter given in the last chapter. She was conscious of having done 
nothing wrong intentionally, and quietly submitted to the change in 
his manner, simply treating him as she had done in former days. In 
fact, her mind was too much absorbed in other subjects, and this love 
had become too little a necessity of her life for her to greatly feel the 
change. Wonderful it is how man adapts himself to the inevitable, 
and Alice was learning the lesson which great trials teach, to look 
calmly on life’s vicissitudes. Lily’s improvement had been only tem- 
porary — the fatal symptoms had increased. 

‘•She has naturally a good constitution, and may linger till next 
spring,’* said the resident physician at the Red Sulphur. “ Take her 
home and let her have her own way in everything. ’ 

And Albert Vaughan determined not to sadden his young sister’s 
last days on earth by revealing to her what had passed between him- 
self and Alice. Not that he had any thought of giving Alice up; 
she had interested him too deeply for that, and his affections, strong 
and constant in their nature, had fastened themselves upon her. But 
he thought that it might be long before he made an explicit declara- 
tion of his feelings toward her; and it would depend on her own de- 
velopment and character whether he ever did or not. He was a man 
of the strictest, nicest sense of integrity, but he had too much good 
sense to consider himself bound to Alice on account of what had 
passed between them if he saw that it would be for the happiness and 
good of them both not to marry. He determined to wait quietly, 


lily’s love. 


31 


and watch Alice, whose feelings seemed to have relapsed into their 
former state of friendship toward him. Lily’s declining health nec- 
essarily threw them much together, and as Albert Vaughan saw more 
of Alice’s daily life, her conscientiousness and gentleness, and marked 
also the signs of morbidness and nervousness — a powerful imagina- 
tion struggling to get beyond the control of a weak, undeveloped 
reason — he saw that he had been hasty in thinking that all these 
component parts could be reduced to a harmonious whole through 
any human influence or in a brief period of time. Slowly, as cir- 
cumstances threw him more with Alice, he saw her strong, passionate 
heart awakening again to love^ and alter mature deliberation his 
course was decided ; whilst he^eld himself bound to Alice and showed 
her by his manner that he did so, to postpone indeflnitely a declara- 
tion of love. As day by day they were thrown together he saw that 
Alice’s spasmodic eflbrts in the formation of her own character were 
fast giving way, and soon again m weariness at the result she would 
be ready to cast her weakness on his strength and look to him alone 
as guide and teacher, only again to re-act as she had done before. 
Albert Vaughan was a man who thought deeply. He knew that every 
human being — woman as well as man — is responsible to God. Wo- 
man, although the weaker, should submit to man’s authority, because 
it is God's law, and not through her own incapacity for governing 
and directing herself. She possesses the power of acting as an inde- 
pendent, responsible being, and this power should be developed and 
sirengthened in her, for this life and for that which is to come. He 
knew that it might be long — years perhaps — before Alice could see 
tills, but he was not the less determined not to marry her until she 
reached it. For an ordinary woman a diflerent course might do, but 
for Alice, with her genius and real capability of sell-government, 
nothing else would do eventually. He kneAV that a way of tribula- 
tion lay before him in pursuing the course he had taken; but he saw 
no alternative — “ the way is the way; ” it was for Alice’s good; of that 
he was sure. He saw not so clearly how it would be for his own. 
But true and strong man that you are, Albert Vaughan, not yet is 
your discijDline complete; much of pride and self-will and self-con- 
sciousness and hardness of heart must be subdued in you, and the 
blessed fruits of the Spirit — humility and submission, and love — grow 
and strengthen in you, ere your character attains its loftiest height 
here, and is lifted for what awaits you hereafter. 

One lovely evening, in early September,^ Lily lay on her couch 


32 


LILT S LOVE. 


asleep. Alice sat by her side, gently fanning her. She looked at the 
wasted tace and hands of her friend, and thought that the time was 
coming when her brother would be left alone; ‘’his early love, mother, 
sister, all gone, and 1,” — her heart swelled with unutterable longing 
and tenderness toward him; the woman’s “strong necessity < f loving,” 
and the woman’s yearning to bless and comfort filled her soul. She 
felt that she had been cold, estranged; thinking of other things, and 
he sufiering, needing comfort and care. 0, to kneel at his feet and 
ask him to forgive her! Suddenly she turned and saw Albert near; 
she met his eyes with all her soul in her face; he understood her, 
half lifted ins arms, dropped them again, bent on her a look of love, 
and light, and sweetness unutterable, and turned and left the room. 

Lily’s healthtulness of mind and cheerfulness increased with h t 
declining health ; the listlessness which characterized the earlier part 
of her illness had disappeared, Mow she was thoroughly awake- 
alive to every duty, every prospect of doing good, far and near. 
Alice looked at her almost with envy. “0 that I could le ill in 
body,” she thought, ” with him to pet and nurse me. How much 
better than this sickness of soul. The storm rages around my spirit. 
With Lily all is peace within.” 

In October Lily went over to Cooleemee to remain several days. 
One of those glorious afternoons, partaking of the warmth and soft- 
ness and hazy brilliance of the Indian summer, Lily proposed to Alice 
that they should walk in the garden to her mother’s grave. “Do 
you know,” she said, “we have not been there together alone since 
August one year ago, the day you decided to go away; I want to go 
with you there again, and it will soon be too cool for me.” Alice as- 
sented immediately, and supporting, almost carrying her friend, they 
walked along to the lovely spot. Nature had put on pnothtr face 
since the time to which Lily alluded; changed almost as much as the 
fair girls who stood there. The rich, deep green of summer had 
given place to the gorgeous tints of autumn. Yellow and red 
mingled with patches of brown and green met the eye as far as it 
could reach, over and beyond the forest-crowned hills. The river 
fiowed, now golden, now leaden, as the sun rested on it or retreated 
from it, on its way to the ocean. The expansive, beautiful stretch of 
lowlands lay at their feet, covered still with its graceful crop of In- 
dian corn, not now in its shining green, but crisp and yellow, and 
ready for the reaper. 

“Unhasting yet unresting,” said Lily, as her eyes rested on the 


lily’s love. 33 

river; “my life must be like it, Alice, as it flows to the ocean of Eter- 
nity.” Alice pressed her friend closer to her side. 

“Isn’t it Bulwer that says: ‘Ambition, like autumn, gilds ere it 
withers?’” said Alice, as the girls continued gazing at the scene. 

“I believe so,” said Lily; “but you know Bulwer far better than I 
do. See, Alice! how like it is my cheek. But do not be sad, dar- 
ling, there is a resurrection for these fading trees and for me. But 1 
came here to talk to you of something else. Sit down here, darling, 
and let me put my head in your lap.” 

“Alice,” said Lily, after a short pause, during which her quick 
breathing became almost audible, “ do you remember as we sat here 
last August a year ago, you asked me if I had found my Ideal here? 
The expression on my face must have checked you, for you said no 
more. I know now that my days on earth are numbered, so I can 
tell you that from my childhood — I have loved — your brother — 
Charlie. Do not speak, darling, but let me go on while I can.” 

“Yes,” continued Lily, dreamily, as if taking a retrospective view 
of the past, “it has grown with my growth and strengthened with 
my strength, till I scarcely know when the child’s love ceased and 
the woman s commenced. Do you remember the day that Charlie let 
me fall from the sapling, which he had bent for me in the woods be- 
hind the school-house? He thoughtlessly let it go, and it flew up 
suddenly and I fell and hurt my side. I remember even then, child 
as I was, feeling that it w^is sweet to be hurt by him. His joyous, 
bright nature was always to me so lovely. Alice, you do not appre- 
ciate Charlie; he is your brother, and you have never known when 
you looked for heroes beyond you what a spirit was at your side. 
His radiant face has helped me better to realize the ‘countenance like 
lightning’ of the Angel of the Resurrection — yes — and carried me 
up even to the Divine glory of the Son of Man. I thank God, Alice, 
that it is yet undimmed by sin or sorrow. Two trials my Father has 
mercifully spared me — to know — 0 God! that Charlie loved another, 
and for him to suffer and I not to have the right to be with him and 
soothe and bless and comfort him.” 

“ But Lily,” interrupted Alice, “God would have given you strength 
to bear these trials if he had called you to them.” 

“I know it,” said Lily, “but yet I bless Him that He has not called 
me to them. At first, darling, I wtis rebellious; it seemed to me hard 
that God should have given us these affections — so natural and inno- 
cent — and yet by His providence forbid their fulfilment. But I have 


34 


LIFE IN DEATH. 


learned better; I see now that I am an idolater; I bow my soul before 
the ‘jealous God’ whose first and great commandment I have broken. 
This heart would only have reached His love through disappointment 
and suffering. It is well — the light grows apace — soon I shall fully 
know and understand. And Alice, my long-tried friend, my darling, 
my soul’s sister — and his sister — one reason why I have told you this, 
though you deserve it by the right of our long love, is that you may — 
when I am gone — give . Charlie my journal. Alice, I do so shrink 
from the thought that all this love — these yearnings and aspirations — 
and beautiful thoughts in connection with him should never be 
known — should die with me. 0 ! they are my life — my immortality — 
they cannot die — and I want him to know them. I do not think 
there is any indelicacy in this desire. My love for him commenced 
when I was a child, before I knew that a woman ought not to love 
till she is sought; and I think it will help to keep his youth and 
manhood pure to know how I have loved him, and that, if God per- 
mits, I will watch over him to the end and be the first to receive him 
when he too goes hence.” Lily ceased, exhausted; she closed her 
large, blue eyes — with that look of the world beyond in them — and 
lay pale and panting on Alice’s knee. 

“0 Lily!” said Alice, in a tone tremulous with emotion, “it is so 
strange — stranger than anything I ever read or heard of” — 

Lily opened her eyes — looked in Alice’s face — the color came dash- 
ing back to her own — 

“Alice,” she said, “ it is time to go in the house.” The quick con- 
fession on Alice’s tongue was cut short; rising, she threw her arm 
around Lily, and they returned slowly and in silence to the house. 


CHAPTER VII. 

LIFE IN DEATH. 

It was the night before the Presidential election of 1860. Alice 
was staying with Lily at Morotock; Lily had retired, but was not dis- 
posed to sleep, and Alice sat by her bedside gently rubbing her fever- 
ish hands and brow with her cool, soft hands. Lily’s mind was 
intensely occupied with the events of the next day and its probable 


LIFE IN DEATH. 35 

consequences. “I am thinking more of you, darling, than of the 
election,” said Alice, sadly. 

“Of me,” said Lily, almost impatiently; “what is my poor life 
compared with the signs that are around us? There is a sound of 
battle in the land and of great destruction. Alice, God is taking me 
from the evil to come; you will be here to see it.” 

“I do not shrink from it,” said Alice; “I am learning not to shrink 
from anything, and I have thought that I would like to live through 
some great era in the world’s history. But, Lily, there is something 
that I wish to say to you, and this is perhaps the best time to say it. 
Lily, darling, you have confided your heart’s secret to me, and now 
I wish to tell you what is so strange, so wonderful, — that I, too, love 
your brother.” 

“I thought it,” said Lily calmly, almost coldly. “I knew what 
you said that evening in the garden meant it. Alice, my friend, do 
not think me unfeeling if I ask you not to speak of this. It is a 
poor return for all your sweet sympathy, but darling, you cannot 
know nor understand how I long to be first with those I love. I al- 
ways knew that mother loved brother best, and 0! the anguish it 
gave me; in my childhood I did not love him for it. But since 
mother’s death, Alice, I have been first to him. I did not think he 
would ever love again, and there is, there should be but one love, 
Alice; forgive me, darling, but if you knew how these feelings have 
been nurtured all my life till they have become a part of my being, 
you would know that I cannot give them up now.” 

“Lily,” said Alice, calmy, “perfectly willing am I not to speak to 
you of this again — but is it right that you should yield to these feel- 
ings?” 

“1 do not see that it is wrong,” said Lily; “God has not called me 
to this sacrifice. Alice, I am not like you; you have the martyr- 
spirit. Why are we not all St. Pauls and Caroline Frys ? But think 
about it, and if you believe I ought to resist them tell me so, ‘ for if 
thine eye offend thee’ — ^you know the rest,” said Lily, wearily. 

‘^My precious Lily! you must sleep now,” said Alice; “let me mes- 
merize you;” and smoothing the snowy brow — so like her brother’s — 
with her sweet, sympathetic touch, Lily soon slept. 

Rapidly passed away the glorious autumn, and winter succeeded. 
Christmas-eve found the two friends together at Cooleemee. Lily sat 
at the piano and played, and endeavored with a weak, trembling voice 
to sing the Gloria In Excelsis^ in which she was joined by Charlie’s 


36 


LIFE IN DEATH. 


deep, fine bass and Alice’s sweet tones. Albert sat listening and look- 
ing at Lily with ill-suppressed emotion. In the vases on the mantel, 
over the windows and around the pictures were Christmas evergreens, 
the bright red berry and shining leaf of the holly mingled with the 
dark green of the cedar and lighter hue of the arbor- vitae. ‘‘We 
will beautify our home,” said Alice, “if we cannot go to church.” 
That night the Colonel read at prayer the evening lesson from the 
glorious prophecy of Isaiah. “ That ‘ arise, shine,’ ” said Charlie, as 
they lingered in the parlor after prayers, “stirs my heart like the 
sound of a trumpet.” “And I,” said Lily, “felt so soothed by ‘thy 
sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself, 
for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light.’ ” 

“And what did you notice most, papa?” said Alice. 

“ I fear I thougiit more of the ‘ darkness that covers the earth and 
gross darkness the people’ than of the glory of the rising light,” 
said the Colonel. 

“ And you, Alice ? ” said Mr. Vaughan. 

‘‘Oil was thinking of Isaiah,” said Alice, with kindling eye, “ and 
how he must have felt looking far beyond the bounds of his own 
time to tne glory that was to be — to the Man that was to come: — 
‘And the Centiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the bright- 
ness of thy rismg.’ And you, Mr. Vaughan?” she added, timidly. 

•“Thy people also shall be all righteous,’” said he, solemnly. 

“I fear that time is far distant,” said the Colonel, his mind revert- 
ing to free sulfrage and the iiepublican party. 

•‘Not to the eye of faith, dear papa,” said Alice; “to Isaiah it was 
present. ‘ Lift up thine eyes round about and see ; all they gather 
themselves together, they come to thee.’ ” 

The ensuing week passed quietly at Cooleemee. Lily was not well 
enough to participate in the festivities of the season, and Alice felt 
no desire to do so. They interested themselves in preparing tokens 
of Christmas cheer for the poor around them, and occasionally in or- 
namenting some sable belle for a party. The negroes clad in their 
holiday-suits, hastened hither and thither, visiting, trafficking, and 
frolicking to such an extent that the Colonel declared that he would 
be glad when the holidays were over and order restored. Mr. V aughan 
remained a good deal in his own room, reading or writing. Charlie 
was frequently absent on a hunting excursion, attended by Rush, or 
at a Christmas gathering, but returned every day or two, brightening 
the household by his sunny presence and lively accounts of what was 


LIFE IN DEATH. 


37 • 

going on in the neighborhood. Alice watched him narrowly during 
these narrations fearing that a chance word or look of interest in som-e 
girl with whom he had danced, or^ung, or played, would wound Lily, 
but nothing occurred to justify the most distant apprehension. 
Charlie’s descriptions of the girls were either humorous or gallant, 
with no shade of sentiment in them. Even the Colonel was struck 
by this, and said to Lily, bending a loving eye on his favorite child — 

‘‘That young dog don’t know what it is to be in love; when I was 
his age my heart, or fancy, was constantly in a flame.” 

“ I suppose,” said Charlie, lightly, ‘‘ I am not to be exempt from a 
passion that chained great Caesar and lost Mark Antony a world — 

‘ Whoe’er then art, thy mistress see, 

She was, or is, or is to be.’ 

But home-love is enough for me yet. Father and Alice — if she will 
bend her eyes on one so little heroic — and Lily,” turning gently and 
affectionately toward her, “she is not 

‘ A creature too bright and good 
For human nature’s daily fooo,’ 

and will look complacently on common-place Charlie.” 

Common-place Charlie! When every nook on the place was 
brighter for him. When Rush capered like mad at his approach, and 
the cat looked up from her purring. W hen the negroes revelled in a 
livelier sense of freedom ; the Colonel forgot the Y ankees, and Alice 
her starry walk. When Albert Vaughan’s grave brow relaxed and 
Lily’s pure joy was only dimmed by the thought, ‘‘It is not all mine.” 
Common-place Charlie! I have known others, fair, loving, loved, but 
never one like you, Charlie. 

The winter pasvsed away quickly, as time does when there is little 
variety to mark its progi'ess. The two families at Gooleemee and at 
Morotock, now almost one, were absorbed in Lily, whose decay was 
gradual but sure. But once had Alice and Lily spoken on the sub- 
ject of the conversation they held on the night before the election. 

“1 believe you were right, Alice,” said Lily, “as you always are. 
There is but one law-giver, one law for us all. And it is so selfish in 
me to have so little regard for your happiness. I will try and feel 
what is right about it. But 0, Alice! this body of sin must be de- 
stroyed, and this mortal put on immortality before the dark stain of 
sinful jealousy, so nurtured in my childhood that but for the grace of 
God it would have cankered all good, is blotted out of my nature.” 

As the spring opened, Albert and Charlie frequently took Lily, who 
was never so happy as when in the open air, out to drive. 


38 


LIFE m DEATH. 


On one of those lovely days in the first burst of spring, Charlie and 
Lily, in an open bnggy, slowly descended the hill leading from Mor- 
otock. The trees were still leafless and barren, but the sun shone 
with a soft, clear radiance; the birds sang joyously; the distant roar 
of a mill was borne on the air; the low-grounds were just beginning 
to be covered by their carpet of green; the young wheat, like, faith, 
lifting its head above the snows and storms of winter. Across the 
river pillars of smoke rear themselves gracefully among the shadowy 
trees, their “ cloud-capp’d towers” mingling with the distant hori- 
zon — all testitymg that man and nature are waking to a new life. 

“How lovely!” exclaimed Lily; ***Lo, the winter is past, the rain 
is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the 
smgmg of birds is come,. and the voice of the turtle is heard in our 
land; the hg-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with a 
tender grape give a good smell.’ Charlie, it seems to me that such a 
morning as this adds peace to the conscience and brightens our hope 
of immortality.” 

“ because your heart is in unison with nature, Lily,’' said Charlie, 
bendmg a soltened look on her, as he thought how soon a new life 
would begm for her. 

** 1 thmk it’s so beautiful, Easter coming in the spring,” continued 
Lily, without heeding the interruption; ‘Hhe Church’s call to rise 
with Christ to a new life when nature is putting off her sleep of 
death. Charlie, Mr. Moore has promised to come Easter afternoon 
and admmister the Communion to me. Won’t you let my last Com- 
munion be your first? ” 

“1 will thmk about it,” said Charlie, much moved. “I have been 
thinking of it, Lily, but 1 cannot feel that I am worthy.” 

“If you wait for that you will never come,” said Lily. “His righ- 
teousness, His pure and stainless righteousness is our only plea. And, 
Charlie, you don’t know how soon you may be called on to take up 
arms in defence of V irginia, but not, I trust, before you enlist under 
the banner of Christ crucified.” 

“I have thought of that too,” said Charlie; “I seem to be just 
waking to the responsibilities of life. The state of the country has 
made me a man before my time, Lily. I feel that I can never be a 
careless, thoughtless boy again.” 

“Encourage those thoughts, dear Charlie,” said Lily, laying her 
hand lightly on his arm. “You know that Daniel Webster said his 
greatest thought was his responsibility to God.” 


LIFE IN DEATH. 


39 


As Easter approached it was evident to all that the end was draw- 
ing near. Lily was now unable to sit up, but lay tranquilly on her 
couch, the sweet spring airs fanning her from open door and window. 
Her physician, knowing that her disease was mortal, worried her with 
no attempts at cure, but administered only soothing remedies. She 
continued cheerful, her faith, as she expressed it, “like a clear sky 
without a cloud.” “ The winds of another March will blow over my 
grave,” she said to Alice one day, “but there is no sadness in the 
thought, for I shall be with Grod. ‘A man shall be as an hiding-place 
from the wind.’ 0, Alice! if I could only bring the world to Christ.” 

Easter-day rose clear and beautiful — “as Lily’s faith,” thought 
Alice, as she glanced from the window. 

‘•No sun upon nn Easter-day 
E'er shone half so hrigbt," 

echoed Lily from her bed. “Alice, I want my white wrapper put on 
this morning and then to be carried in the library and laid on the 
sofa. I will receive the Communion there and see the sun set from 
the library windows.” 

All was done as she directed, and Lily seemed unusually well and 
to take great interest in the lessons for Easter and in preparations for 
the communion. Early in the afternoon Charlie entered with a little 
bunch of snow-drops in his hand. 

“ Thou flrst-born ol the year’s delight, 

Pride of the dewy glade, 

In vernal green aud virgin white, 

Thy vesial robes, arrayed,” 

said Lily, as he handed them to her, and then her eye sought his 
wistfully. 

“I will be with you this afternoon, Lily,” whispered he, as he bent 
over her hand ; and a glow lit Lily’s face which Charlie never forgot. 
For the first time in his life he noticed, with a half-pang, Lily’s rare 
loveliness. “ Surely, she never looked so beautiful before,” he thought, 
as his eye fell on the graceful, still rounded figure, arrayed in its ves- 
tal robes of virgin white; the transparent complexion, with its peach- 
like bloom; the innocent, open brow, around which clustered soft, 
light curls. Lily smiled; she had studied that face, over which the 
quick meaning went like sunshine and shadow, too long not to know 
what it said now. 

Fastening the snowdrops at her throat, she said: “Now, Charlie, 
Alice ought to rest some. You may sit here and fan me, if you 
please.” 

Late in the afternoon Mr. Moore arrived; a man of about sixty-five 


40 


LIFE IN DEATH. 


years of age, although his erect figure and strong, clear face, indi- 
cated no mark of failure, physical or mental. 

*‘How are you, my child?” said he, stooping to kiss Lily. 

My flesh and my heart fail, but God is the strength of my heart 
and my portion forever,” replied she, lifting her clear eyes to his. 

A fair, white linen cloth was placed on a little table beside Lily, 
and the sacred elements set thereon. 

It was a striking group collected in the library at Morotock on that 
Easter afternoon. Lily, dying in her young beauty; Alice, on whose 
earnest face was stamped the greater struggle of living ; Charlie’s 
bright, softened youth; the minister’s pure, disciplined face; the Col- 
onel’s querulous union of sternness and benevolence; and Albert 
Vaughan’s strong emotions, only held in check by his stronger will. 
At the door stood a group of wondering, sorrowing servants. Through 
the open windows, afar up and down the river, are 

“ Swe«t Helds arrayed iu living green,” 

the low-grounds this year in wheat, while around the setting sun the 
clouds are hastening in gold and purple, like the loving friends gath- 
ering around the setting of a more glorious sun — an immortal spirit. 

The Communion is over; the memorial, which perhaps, more than 
all things else, brings the reality of the Christian faith home to the 
true heart. The creed of Apostles and martyrs has been repeated 
with one voice, and “ that we may evermore dwell in Him and He in 
us,” received its fervent Amen. The angelic hymn has been echoed 
by one voice almost among the angels, and Lily lay pale and ex- 
hausted from the unwonted exertion. 

“Let us be quiet now,” she murmured, and a stillness like that of 
the Ordinal fell over the little circle. 

Lily lay for some time with closed eyes, and then opening them 
said in a voice that sent a strange thrill to the heart of every one 
present: 

“Satan entered Eden — I need not wonder that he is here now — I 
have had a fearful temptation — Satan knows it is his last chance, but 
thanks be to God which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus 
Christ.” 

Her brother felt her pulse and administered a restorative; she 
seemed to rally for a few minutes, and then again sank. He went 
out hastily to dispatch a servant for the physician. 

The shadows of evening fell over the little room. “Lift me up,” 
said Lily. Charlie raised her in his arms. 


FORWARD ! LET US DO OR DIE ! 


U 

“ Look, Charlie,” she said, pointing to the long line of golden light 
that lingered around the horizon, “at evening-time there shall he 
light. Now lay me down.” Albert returned to the room and the 
Colonel stole from it; he could not bear what was coming. Lily re- 
mained so long quiet that her friends thought she might never speak 
again, when she repeated with closed eyes, “None but Jesus— in life 
so much else, but here — None but Jesus.” Then opening her eyes— 
“Alice, Charlie, take care of brother,” and the light never seen on 
shore or sea came into Lily’s face — and she was with God. 


JB4»OK H.~THi: 

CHAPTER 1. 

“forward! let us do or die!” 

The merry month of May, 1861, found the South a vast military 
camp. All is stir, bustle, and activity. In the midst of a mighty 
revolution an infant government is forming, an army is springing 
into life, men are buckling on the sword, women are eagerly prepar- 
ing every comfort for camp and held, children and negroes are look- 
ing and listening with wondering eyes and ears. Nought escapes the 
contagion; from the stately homes of the higher classes in town and 
in country, down through every gradation of society. The War is the 
one universal theme of absorbing interest to every heart and every 
lip. 

The little group gathered around Lily at Morotock had scarcely 
time to recover from the immediate effects of her death before they 
found themselves in the midst of a new and strange life. Unwonted 
words and sounds echoed around them ; the signs of peace had given 
place to those of war. Regiment and company, drill and parade, 
uniform and haversack, bandage and lint burdened the air, and al- 
most before they could turn their eyes from following Lily as she dis- 
appeared heaven wiird, Albert Vaughan found that his peaceful dreams 
of a minister’s life had given place to those of strife and conflict, 
Charlie had laid down the pruning-hook for the sword, and Alice was 


42 


FORWARD ! LET US DO OR DIE ! ” 


elected secretary of a soldiers’ aid society. Had Albert Vaughan 
been already a minister, nothing would have been farther from his 
thoughts than to leave the high and holy duties of life’s most sacred 
calling for those of warfare and bloodshed. In a chaplaincy in the 
army there lay enough of sacrifice and danger to satisfy the most ar- 
dent spirit. But he was not yet a minister, and now it seemed im- 
practicable that he should be one. 

The Theological Seminary of Virginia was, by its position, in the 
hands of the enemy, and would probably soon be broken up. Albert 
Vaughan had always been a Union man, but he was a Virginian and 
a practical man; in the demands of the Government and in the state 
of feeling at the South, he saw -no hope save in war. He looked on 
the group of helpless blacks inherited from his fathers, with the con- 
viction that for them slavery was the highest and best condition; 
and for their sake he thought it his duty to arm against the Govern- 
ment — united with some very strong natural opposition to being 
forced to do anything against his own will and judgment. The gen- 
eral consent of the young men of the neighborhood pointed to Mr. 
Vaughan as their leader. His commanding character and firmness 
of purpose were well-known, to which he joined rare knowledge of 

military tactics for a civilian, and his company, the Virginia 

regiment, was the first raised in the county. Charlie, always an en- 
thusiastic secessionist, had been wearing the blue cockade — fastened 
on by Lily — for weeks, and he, unlike some other enthusiastic seces- 
sionists, was one of the first to enlist as a private in Capt. Vaughan’s 
company. “The example must be set,” said Charlie, in reply to his 
father’s remonstrances, who knew from Charlie’s popularity that he 
could easily get a lieutenantcy. “ Young men of fortune must go as 
privates, or those without fortune will rebel,” and so the “knightly 
scion of a Southern home,” the delicately-nurtured boy, the owner 
of broad lands and a princely retinue became one of many to toil and 
watch as not one of his father’s slaves had ever done. Who can 
wonder that during the first year of the war they fell like leaves be- 
fore the blast over all the fair Southern land! Pestilence destroying 
even more than war. The Colonel said that the boys must go — 
there was no help for it — but he shook his head and muttered gloom- 
ily within his beard, “the powers of darkness had been triumphant 
before and might be so again.” 

To Alice her native State was — as it is to all Virginians — an en- 
thusiasm, a romance; but her sympathetic heart and warm imagina- 


43 


“forward! let us do or die!” 

tion had never stopped at Virginia. She loved the whole Union. In 
fancy she had stood with Frank Key, when amid a storm of shot and 
shell, a prisoner on board an English ship, he had written the “Star- 
spangled Banner,” and not at once could she wrench all such memo- 
ries from her heart. But her brothers, Albert Vaughan, the 
playmates of her childhood, were arming against that flag. There 
was no resisting such logic as that. The soldiers’ aid society met 
every few days at the county seat, and the delicate hands of Southern 
ladies were employed in making heavy uniforms and coarse tents, 
while fingers almost as swift as Northern looms were engaged in 
knitting socks and gloves and comforts. Linen sheets and towels 
were drawn from hidden recesses, cut into bandages, and picked into 
lint. Alice saw little of Albert Vaughan during those stirring days; 
she knew that he was busily engaged in equipping his company for 
service and quietly submitted to it; but a yearning hope sprang up 
in her heart that he would not go to the field without telling her that 
he loved her. “0, only for the right of a betrothed to cheer and 
comfort him,” she thought; “or,” pleiwied the far away, inmost re- 
cesses of her heart, “a wife’s right; then nothing, nothing, could 
separate us.” But, poor child! she was to learn that love’s hardest 
trial comes not in doing and sutfering all things for the beloved, but 
through a weak, doubting, tried faith — silent, unaided, alone, with 
none but Grod to see and help. 

Albert Vaughan saw no reason in the new and strange turn which 
events had taken to change his course towards Alice. In fact he was 
rather confirmed in it by the existing state of things. “If I fall,” 
he thought, “she will recover sooner if she is free. She is young, 
elastic, and will love again. Poor child! I hope she may.” And 
thus each reasoned, one with a woman’s heart, the other with a man’s 
head; and as the days sped on and the time drew near for the depart- 
ure of the volunteers, Alice felt that her heart had deceived her. 
The lightning glance of his eye, the occasional pressure of his hand, 
as he came and went, told her that he loved her. And with this she 
must be content for — oh! she knew not how long; for surely she was 
learning that no contingency, no suffering to himself or to her 
would turn that resolute will from the purpose he believed to be best. 

Some weeks elapsed after Lily’s death before Alice summoned cour- 
age to give Charlie the journal. He was so happy in his uncon- 
sciousness and in his brotherly love of Lily that Alice could not bear 
to disturb it. But it was a sacred trust and must be done, and foK 


44 


“fobward! let us do OB die!” 

lowing Charlie out into the hall one night as he retired to his room, 
she placed the journal in his hands saying that it was at Lily’s re- 
quest. Charlie looked surprised but said nothing. Alice scarcely 
ventured to look in his face the next morning as he entered late the 
breakfast-room. But glancing at him as she handed him his coflPee 
she was struck by the change one night had made in his face. The 
white, clear complexion was whiter and clearer than ever; the open, 
beaming blue eyes were heavy with tears and want of sleep; the 
mobile lip quivered with the effort at self-control; on the whole face 
was a thoughtful, suffering look, something like that which had rested 
on Lily’s face long ago. From that night the levity which had been 
a serious fault in Charlie’s character vanished, and after a few days 
there appeared in its stead a cheerful trust, a union of thought, love 
and hope beautiful to see. But once did he speak to Alice of Lily 
before going to the field. A day or two before starting he brought 
her the journal. 

“I confide this to you, Alice,” he said, “as my most sacred trust. 
I would take it with me but for fear it will fall in the hands of the 
enemy. If I fall burn it, for no eyes but mine must ever rest upon 
it. 0, Alice!” he continued, leaning his head on her should^., with 
a burst of emotion, “if you knew or suspected this why did you not 
tell me? To think of what I have lost, to which I was blind — 
blind!” 

“Think of what she would have suffered in seeing you and her 
brother go to the field, dear Charlie,” said Alice, kissing his tears 
away and smoothing back the soft rings of his hair, “how would she 
have borne these preparations for war ? ” 

“Yes,” said Charlie, lifting his head, “it is best as it is, and” — a 
gleam lighting up his eye — “ it may be better than I know.” 

The day before the one appointed to start, Charlie rode over to 
Morotock; he found Mr. Vaughan in the midst of his final prepara- 
tions, as he intended to stay at Cooleemee that night. After discuss- 
ing the men and their equipment for a while, Charlie asked Albert if 
he would give him Lily’s prayer-book, the one she had used at her 
last, and his first, communion. Albert readily complied, saying that 
he would keep her Bible. “And I will keep this,” thought Charlie, 
reverently pressing it to his lips and placing it in his breast pocket, 
“until I drink of that cup new with you in our Father’s kingdom.” 

He went alone to pay his parting visit to Lily’s grave. The tall, 
dark cedars rose like sentinels guarding the sacred spot where the 


FORWARD ! LET US DO OR DIE ! 


45 


ashes of the V aughans had slept for three generations. A stone wall 
covered with ivy inclosed it. Within were white roses, just begin- 
ning to bud. A marble slab surmounted by the emblematic cross 
and crown had been placed at Lily’s head, bearing with the name and 
dates of birth and death the simple inscription, “None but Jesus.” 
A pang smote Charlie’s heart, but he checked the feeling as he threw 
himself on the ground beside the grave and rested his brow on the 
soft turf. “Yes,” he murmured, “None but Jesus — in that sense 
none but Him. 0, her Saviour and mine, unite us forever in Thee!” 

A melancholy party assembled around the table that night at Coo- 
leemee; every one, however, with the exception of the Colonel who 
made no effort to conceal his sadness, striving to be cheerful. But 
even Charlie’s sallies grew less frequent and the party would probably 
have utterly broken down but for a sudden diversion. Arberius, 
worn-out with following the soldiers during the day, and discussing 
the war in the kitchen at night, standing erect behind his master’s 
chair had unobserved fallen into a profound slumber, from which he 
was suddenly roused by the clanging fall of his waiter. The laughter 
raised by this contretemps and Arberius’ discomfiture served to dissi- 
pate the gloom of the party. Who can always think of tragedy 
with comedy at hand? Even the Colonel in part resumed his former 
self at Arberius’ awakened start and conversation became more ani- 
mated and general. 

“You must take care of your roses, Alice,” said Charlie, glancing 
at his sister’s pale cheek, “ I will be bringing a gallant General home 
to you after a while.” Alice half smiled and involuntarily looked at 
Mr. Vaughan, whose quick, earnest eye appropriated Charlie’s jesting 
words. But the roses had faded still more the next morning, not- 
withstanding the pink ribbons with which Alice tried to simulate 
their color. 

“How like a lily she looks,” thought Albert, crushing back the 
tears from his eyes to his heart as he looked at the pale, pure face, 
lovelier in its spiritual beauty than the perfect Greek head of the 
cameo that rested on her bosom. 

The Colonel read the ninety-first psalm. 

The sun shone brightly in at the open windows; the words which 
have sustained thousands of suffering hearts for generations and will 
sustain thousands to the end of time rose sweetly and clearly on the 
morning air. And then all knelt and together repeated the Lord’s 
Prayer, and in a few broken words the Colonel commended the be- 


46 


“forward! let us do or die!'' 

loved ones to God. The table with its snowy cloth and burnished 
silver, under Mammy’s watchful supervision was already spread. 
Celia, Alice’s maid, had placed little bouquets of roses — which Alice 
afterwards pinned on their coats — at Charlie’s and Albert’s plates. 
The tall, old-fashioned clock ticked away soberly as usual in the cor- 
ner, unmindful of what its moments brought. Who, looking on 
Albert’s calm, pure face and Charlie’s eloquent with love, could think 
it was to war they wer^ going. Captain Vaughan’s company was to 
assemble at the court-house and march from thence to meet the regi- 
ment. 

“We will come by home, Alice,” said Charlie, rising from the ta- 
ble, “ and you may wave your handkerchief and cheer the boys if you 
choose, but we will tell you good-bye now.” 

‘*And I will have testaments and prayer-books for those who have 
none,” said Alice. “ I put them in the breast-pockets of all the coats 
we made, but there may be others without them.” 

“Take care of yourself, my boy,” said the Colonel, “if evil befalls 
you it will bring my gray hairs down in sorrow to the grave.” 

“I trust they will never go down to the grave with shame for your 
boy, father,” said Charlie, kissing him reverently, and then straining 
Alice to his heart and whispering “Take care of father,” he was 
gone. Albert kissed Alice and left on her hand a long, lingering 
pressure. Alice strove to meet his eye cheerfully, but even then she 
felt that her worst trial was that he had not told her he loved her. 

Arberius, at the Colonel’s earnest request, was to go with them, 
ostensibly as Captain Vaughan’s servant, but really to take care of 
Charlie in case he should be sick or wounded. On going to the door 
he was found standing without, decked in his Sunday suit and sport- 
ing a large bouquet of roses which Celia had coquettishly stuck in his 
coat in imitation of higher powers. A group of servants had col- 
lected around, to whom Charlie was saying good-bye, shaking hands 
with all. His snowy complexion and noble presence contrasted with 
their dusky faces, making him look more like an angel than ever 
Angle did in the market of Rome. Near Charlie stood Rush, wag- 
ging his tail and looking around with a puzzled air as to what it 
could all be about. A scream from Mammy rose in the air just as 
t^e party reached the door. 

“ This will not do,” said Alice hastily, and stepping out she drew 
Mammy aside and begged her to stop, saying that she would distress 
Charlie very much, and the other servants would begin to cry and 


•‘forward! let us do or die!” 




scream if she did so. Mammy obeyed, not without some feeling, 
however, in giving up her only consolation — a scene — and with some 
muttered indignation at the thought of “ them niggers caring for 
her blessed child as she did, who missed him and loved him as well as 
the mother that begot him.” 

And they are gone — gone to war! Alice gave herself not one mo- 
ment to think, but with a silent, great yearning, commended the 
beloved ones to God, and turning to her father, proposed that they 
should look up the testaments and prayer-books in the house to give 
the volunteers as they passed by. This was soon done, and about two 
hours later the tramp of men was heard and the sun shone and 
danced merrily on forms with bright, gilded braid and buttons as they 
appeared advancing among the trees. Alice and her father stood at 
the gate with a basket of books. The company, marching in file, 
halted as it approached. Many and varied were the faces turned 
towards the old man and the fair girl; some hopeful and beaming as 
going forth to a gay fourney; others dark and troubled, the thought 
of wife and child pressing heavily within; some careless or reckless — 
those in debt or disaffected swelling the ranks of war in all ages. 

Captain Vaughan asked his men ; if they all had Bibles; if not 
Miss Bradford would be glad to supply them. About a dozen came 
forward to receive them. Alice said a few words to each as she pre- 
sented them, and then stepping back told Captain Vaughan that she 
would detain him no longer. The company filed on with eager hearts 
and elastic steps. Alice and her father stood looking after them; 
through the waving branches of the green trees flashed the bright 
buttons; and now they approached a turn in the road which will soon 
hide them from view. Charlie did not look back; he feared for- his 
father if he did; Captain Vaughan turned and waved his hand; never 
had he looked so handsome, such a picture of manly grace and beauty, 
the fine uniform fitting closely to the well-proportioned, erect figure. 
Alice could see the flash of his clear, dark eye, the wave of his curl- 
ing brown hair, the glory of the smile that hovered over his lip, and 
the chiselled outline of his features. Visions of where that figure 
might next be flashed over her brain, but her lips formed themselves 
into a smile, she lifted her hand and waved her handkerchief, and as 
the last gray uniform disappeared behind the green trees she sank 
fainting into her father’s arms. 


48 


LIFE AT HOME. 


CHAPTER II. 

LIFE AT HOME. 

History has given — and yet will give — ^the life of the field during 
the war to the world. It is for us to portray something of the un- 
written life at home; of the endurance, the waiting and watching 
and sacrifices of the aged, of women and of children. “ ‘ Evil be it 
with thy daughter, 0 my father, that thy gray hairs are forgotten 
because of the golden locks of youth,’” was Alice’s first thought as 
she awoke from the swoon into which she had fallen on the depart- 
ure of the volunteers and beheld her father’s care-worn face — grown 
older in an hour — bending anxiously over her. Had Alice yielded to 
her feelings then she would have remained in bed and wept for hours; 
but duty — duty to Cod and to her father, and to the beloved ones 
gone to the field — aroused her to exertion. And in the care of her 
father, in supplying Charlie’s place at home, and in providing com- 
forts for the beloved ones in the field, she found sufiicient employ- 
ment; and this joined to her natural elasticity of temperament soon 
restored her to that degree of interest in things without which life 
beeomes merely mechanical. 

Alice was greatly aided in her efforts to interest and “ take care ” 
of her father by the visits of Mr. Moore and of Dr. Pringle, Colonel 
Bradford’s family physician. 

It has been said that some eminent writers — Dickens among them — 
have failed to draw the character of a Christian minister in its high- 
est sense. They cannot have seen life as the writer of this story has 
seen it or they might have drawn several from their own personal 
knowledge. In Mr. Moore, a youth spent temperately in the fear of 
God was bearing its fruits in age. So beautifully disciplined and 
moulded had his character become under the hand of God, “ whose 
he was and whom he served,” that one could hardly tell now what 
were its natural defects. The will had been strengthened where 
weak, chastened where strong, in doing and submitting to his Father’s 
will; the imagination had resumed its place under the guidance of 
its elder sister reason; the passions were all tending to love, pure 
love to God and man. The body had walked so long in the ways of 
holiness that it had become almost second nature to be temperate and 
pure. The whole man, body, soul and spirit renewed in the image of 
Him who created him, was returning to perfect holiness and joy. 


LIFE AT HOME. 


49 


Sorrow — the common lot — had not spared this man of God; a be- 
loved wife and several children had been lain in the grave, and he was 
now left with no near tie on earth. And yet, 

“ A. mirthful man he was; the snows of age 
Fell, but they did not chill him.” 

“ The general tenor of my mind is thankfulness,” said he to Alice 
one day, and Alice who knew his strict and measured truth looked up 
to him as to one of those lofty peaks of her native State, rearing its 
head to the sky and smiling in beauty and verdure on all below. 

The good Doctor — known and loved through the whole commu- 
nity — was about fifty-six years of age, an old bachelor with a ro- 
mantic but not very clearly-defined story connected with his youth, 
(why must every one have a love-story?) fearing God and loving 
little children; hating nothing but the Yankees and people who did 
not pay their debts; and them only in theory, for he would have di- 
vided his last crumb with a suffering one among them. He was as 
careless in collecting as he was strict in paying his debts which kept 
him always poor; an excellent physician, wise in theory, simple in 
practice, and with that gentle mixing of kindliness and humor so 
beautifully blended in some natures. Morning, noon and night Alice 
would sit knitting socks for the soldiers and listening to the comments 
of her father and his friends over their pipes on the war. To her 
acute mind it was interesting, even with so much at stake, to notice 
how each of them colored events by his own pecular cast of thought. 
Her father, gloomy, sometimes bitter, and yet softened by the danger 
to which his sons — for Edward Bradford was also in the field — were 
exposed. The Doctor hopeful, cheerful, anecdotical; sanguine in be- 
half of his own cause and contemptuous of the Yankees. Mr. Moore 
doubtful; balancing conflicting elements and forces; quoting from 
history, and yet with a firm, unshaken trust that God ruleth over all. 

The great event of the life at Cooleemee was the semi- weekly mail 
which never failed to bring a letter either from Albert or Charlie. 

The letters written during the war! Who can ever forget them? 
How the ordinary “dear” and “affectionate” of the time when no 
fear of sudden death gave life to the pen, were transformed into 
“darling” and “precious,” “beloved” and “own,” as the thought that 
it might be the last hovered over the pen. Those old letters! How 
are they treasured now! Preserved by the salt brine that has fallen 
over them ; entwined with locks dark and fair, and radiant young 
faces looking up at you from among them. Precious heritage! No 


50 


LIFE AT HOME. 


such record of the war as they remains. Charlie’s letters were a fair 
specimen of such as these; the boy’s heart overflowed with love and 
love-words as he wrote to father and sister. Albert's were like his 
usual manner; calm, quiet, somewhat constrained; there was little 
difference between those to Alice and to her father. Once he said in 
a letter to her: ‘‘I have always agreed with the Highlanders of Scot- 
land that the memory of the dead should be preserved by speaking 
of them as we did in life. Alice, may I, a bereft and lonely man, 
^;peak to you whenever I feel so disposed of my mother and Lily, and 
of the lost love of my youth ? ” A pang smote Alice’s heart — they 
so cherished — she so distant — but she repulsed it as unworthy and 
replied encouraging him to do so. 

But a deeper life — a life within a life — sprang up in Alice’s soul 
during this time. Her lover absent — silent — with none of those 
nameless signs which tell us when we are beloved — her soul chilled 
and repressed turned with in tenser longing to the ever-present, un- 
seen Love. The doubts of the mind had in a great measure disap- 
peared before the trials of the heart. Religion came with its soothing, 
blessed influence to calm and sustain as soon as the heart began to 
suffer, and through the heart the mind w^as slowly reached. The war 
too was of great service in turning her thoughts from the speculative 
and inward, and directing them to the practical and outward. The 
yearning for expression passed away; life was too real and earnest 
now to write, but in her solitary moments she could still sometimes 
read. 

Searching among her uncle’s books Alice came across Archbishop 
Leighton’s works; she was entranced by the classic beauty and purity 
of the style, and above all by his views and conception of Christ. 
“ I can love Him — my Saviour — without bound or measure,” was her 
delighted thought as she read. Onward she went from book to book 
with restless avidity. She soon came across a different class of 
writers, “ Rutherford’s Letters,” “ Glimpse of Glory,” and others of a 
like nature, — rare old books collected by the young student of the- 
ology who delighted in tracing Christian experience in every form. 
“ This is what I need,” thought Alice as she read Rutherford’s strong, 
passionate expressions of love for Christ and of the joy he found in 
Him. “ 0, I could bear all things, I would care for nothing if I had 
this love.” The “ Song of Solomon ” seemed to her now the only 
fitting food for her soul; the nectar and ambrosia on which she could 
banquet. She could not understand it all, but what she did under- 


LIFE AT HOME. 


51 


stand seemed to open a perennial spring of light and love and joy. 
She was Christ’s and He was hers; He was the beloved — the Only 
One ; come suffering— wo — desolation — all were as nought before that 
love. Alice asked herself sometimes after those rapt moments if she 
could be mistaken; if there could be anything false or unnatural in 
her feelings? She thought not; did not the Divine Song and other 
passages of* the Bible teach it? besides Rutherford and other holy 
men ? And yet she was surprised to find that these ecstatic states of 
mind did not promote her growth in holiness and her perfect subjec- 
tion to its laws as she thought they should. Perhaps these states of 
feeling were not intended to supply the place of ordinary means of 
grace, but were exceptional, and to meet the peculiar needs of her 
nature. One could not always^ — perhaps not often — enjoy the most 
exquisite view — the most delicious strains of music — or the most del- 
icate viands,” thought Alice; “in this life the practical even in relig- 
ion must predominate over the emotional — no doubt it is best so. 
And yet,” she pursued, “there must be greater happiness in God and 
Christ than most Christians find or this world may give greater hap- 
piness than God, which cannot be if God is known and loved aright. 
And does not God in the Bible address us by the most precious names 
known among men ? 0, to find all in Him through Christ.” But 

worrying — trying — strange and foolish thoughts concerning Christ 
would intervene; could it be right to transfer thus the human and 
passionate to Him? Was there not danger in it? And weary would 
Alice sometimes grow of these perplexities. But there were moments 
of comfort and peace “ as the world giveth not.” And once as she 
sat alone in her room a melody came to her heart unlike anything 
she had ever known before; something as distinct and separate from 
her own soul as a strain of music is from the ear that receives it; a 
bliss not of earth but a harbinger — a foretaste of “the glory that shall 
be revealed in us.” 

But conjectures on the part of the older people and Alice’s deep 
spiritual life were alike interrupted by a new and terrible fact which 
came suddenly though long-looked for — the battle of Manassas. The 
announcement of a great victory seemed to be almost borne on the 
air, so soon did it reach Cooleeniee. Thank God! Charlie and Albert 
were safe ; their regiment had been ordered down near the eastern 
shore, but Edward Bradford was in the Army of Northern Virginia. 
Several gentlemen of the neighborhood, among them Dr. Pringle, 
urged by anxious, hopef*ul, or despairing women, started immediately 


52 


LIFE AT HOME. 


to the scene of action. Colonel Bradford was too feeble to j?o, and 
besides there was no one to remain at home with Alice. Few persons 
were patriotic enough for feelings of unmixed joy till beloved ones 
were heard from, and following soon after the news of a glorious 
victory came a rumor, vague at first but gathering strength as it pro- 
ceeded, that Edward Bradford was among the slain. The report of 
his son’s death prostrated Colonel Bradford, or he and Alice would 
have started immediately to the field. They knew* that Doctor Pringle 
and other friends would do all that could be done for him, and nought 
remained but to wait till they could hear certainly. Suspense, that 
terrible lesson so deeply learned during the war, was now to be their 
portion. Alice looked up to her brother and loved and adm^ed him 
with enthusiastic devotion, but her sutfering found relief in the care 
necessary to bestow on her father. Colonel Bradford took the dark- 
est view of things; he felt sure that his son was killed. Alice re- 
peated often to herself, and once to her father: “He shall not be 
afraid of any evil tidings, for his heart is fixed trusting in the Lord.” 

“How do you understand that, Alice?” said the Colonel. 

“That brother is safe?” said Alice, slowly; “no, papa, but that it 
is all right, however it is.” 

“I certainly can’t feel that if you can,” said the Coloi el impa- 
tiently, and Alice, nervous and worn' and sorely wanting comfort 
herself, left the room but reproaching herself for this unkindness to 
her father soon returned. 

Three days which seemed almost three weeks ended the terrible 
suspense. A letter from Doctor Pringle assured them of Edward’s 
safety; he was wounded but not severely, and was at home. 

Great had been the sympathy manifested by all classes with the 
family at Cooleemee during their trial; this was the first repc rt of 
death by the war reaching their own hearthstones, and none knew 
where the blow would fall next; besides Edward Bradford was be- 
loved in the neighborhood. And now proportionably great was the 
rejoicing with the father and sister; neighbor shouted the good news 
to neighbor as he passed along the road or by each other’s dwelling. 
The victory of Manassas seemed only complete with the tidings that the 
gallant man whom they had known and loved from his boyhood was 
still among the living. The negroes were as frantic in their demon- 
strations of joy as they would have been in grief, had they not been 
sternly repressed by Colonel Bradford. 

A few days brought a letter from Edward himself, giving an ac- 


LIFE AT HOME. 


53 


count of his wonderful escape. Whilst charging a battery at the 
he.id of his company he was struck in the breast by a ball; a button 
averted its deadly course but he fell; recovering himself he made an 
effort to rise when he was struck on the forehead by a spent ball 
which knocked him senseless. It was whilst lying on the field in this 
condition he was seen and thought to be dead. The letter wound up 
with earnest expressions of thankfulness to the Giver of every good 
and perfect gift for his deliverance. 

Beneath this great joy the Colonel felt transformed, as if length of 
time had been added to his days also, and Alice knew not how great 
her grief was till the reaction came. “ Given back like Isaac from 
the dead,” said the Colonel, “ God be merciful to me a sinner for my 
lack of faith.” 

“0 papa!” said Alice looking up at him with radiant face, “does 
not the war bring great joys as well as great sorrows?” And then 
came the deeper thought that thus it would be hereafter; that we 
know not how sad our lot is here till with spirits freed from sin and 
restored to God’s image we dwell with him. 

A few nights after Alice was suddenly roused from sleep by strange, 
unwonted sounds, mingled with a succession of clear, sharp barks 
from Rush. Springing from her bed with a terrible fear 'thrilling her 
heart she rushed to the window. The moon shone tenderly across 
the greensward; the shadows of the great trees lay silently around; 
all was calm and peaceful within the yard. But beyond the gate a 
dark group was moving onward. Just then a shout arose upon the 
air and borne forward, his white face rising above dusky heads and 
his bright buttons glancing in the moonlight, was Charlie, carried as 
in the olden time when a boy at the annual corn-shucking, on the 
shoulders of the servants. “It is not Ae,” said Alice’s heart, “or 
Charlie would not have come thus like a conqueror,” and throwing a 
shawl around her she ran down stairs and met her father and brother 
at the door. “Vaughan was well— home on business for the regi- 
ment — only for a few days,” was Charlie’s brief explanation after the 
first embraces. Coming by the cabins he had found some of the ser- 
vants up picking the banjo; the news spread like wild-fire and he 
could not resist their earnest wish to carry him as they had done 
when he was a boy. 

Those visits home during the war! Who can forget them? How 
they stand out green, smiling oases in that moral desert of strife and 
bloodshed ! How the luxuries hoarded for weeks or months for such 


54 


LIFE AT HOME. 


an event were lavished on the beloved one! And how he who had 
borne the toils and cares and dangers of war revelled in the delights 
of Home ! On other occasions Mammy’s brow clouded at the slaugh- 
ter of a favorite chicken; such an act was only performed at the stern 
behest of duty. But for Charlie! Dominica and white pullet — the 
care of weeks — were cheerfully sacrificed; and if Charlie had been 
capable of transformation into a feathered fowl it would certainly 
have been done from the number he was required to partake of dur- 
ing his visit home. 

“How does camp-life suit Albert?” fisked the Colonel as they lin- 
gered over the dessert one day. 

“Not at all to his taste I am sure,” said Charlie, “but he tries to 
make the best of it. His tent is as neat as a lady’s boudoir; and if 
camp-life don’t suit him he suits it. He certainly has the gift of con- 
trolling men beyond any one I ever saw; he will be a General if he 
lives. I wish you could have seen him, Alice, when he assembled the 
men for morning-service the Sunday before I left; he requested them 
to repeat the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed with him, and to 
my surprise many of them did so. I think they followed him invol- 
untarily.” 

“And Arberius — how does he get on?” asked the Colonel. 

“0, admirably!” said Charlie laughing, “it just suits him. The 
servants, you know, rank among themselves as their masters or em- 
ployers do, and its rich to see Arberius trying to ape Vaughan. He 
carries himself very erect and is quite solemn in his deportment at 
dress-parade; but let any frolic be on hand, the lady resumes her 
natural shape of a cat. He looks with some mortification on my 
private’s coat, but consoles himself by giving exaggerated accounts 
of my grandeur at home. If anything could make Arberius face the 
music it would be love of me. By-the-way, Alice, I saw him the 
other day washing up the dishes with the lint you provided for us 
and wiping them on the bandages. It was well that Vaughan didn’t 
catch him at it; his crest would have been shorn for some days to 
come.” 

Little did Charlie think in the unconscious humility of his charac- 
ter how much more was due to his own sympathetic influence in 
controlling the men than to Captain Vaughan’s stronger will. Char- 
lie’s special faults, levity and fickleness, were fast yielding to the dis- 
cipline of life. Albert’s character was like the great oak. which can 
only reach perfection in a century; Charlie’s the light and graceful 


LIFE AT HOME. 


55 


willow on the water-courses, mirroring itself in the hearts of all 
around him. In his account of the morning-service he was uncon- 
scious that it was his own clear, sweet voice and winning ways far 
more than Captain Vaughan’s commanding dignity that won the 
men to repeat words many of them had never heard before. 

The evening before Charlie left, the brother and sister sat within 
the embrasure of the large sitting-room window. The Colonel in an 
arm-chair at a little distance contemplated his children with a quiet 
happiness which soon resulted in a placid slumber. Rush lay at 
Charlie’s feet, occasionally looking up with an expression full of con- 
tent, and at length glancing at the Colonel settled herself to sleep 
after so dignified an example. Charlie’s arm encircled Alice’s slender 
waist and her head rested on his shoulder, each feeling that fulness 
of domestic love and peace known too rarely between brother and 
sister. Often in the last few months and more especially since Charlie’s 
return — for he was not one of those who gain by absence — ^had Lily’s 
words been in Alice’s mind: “Alice, you do not appreciate Charlie; 
looking away for some grand hero, your eyes have been closed to the 
beauty of the character at your side;” and now thinking of what 
might be before her Alice felt thankful that a deeper sympathy and 
appreciation had not come too late for this life. Charlie is speaking 
of Lily, his clear face lighting and softening as he speaks. 

“Alice, it seems to me that I have been learning of late something 
of the joy of sorrow in submitting the heart to God’s will. At first 
it seemed to me hard that the knowledge of this love — which all men 
must feel the need of sooner or later — should have come to me too 
late. But it don't seem so to me now; there is a merciful providence 
in it; it would have been so hard for me to leave her ill and unpro- 
tected; now, whatever comes, there is nothing to dim the bright as- 
surance that she is safe — far beyond all earthly harms and evils. 
And it would have been so hard to go to war — perhaps to death — 
with life opening before me with all the promise that her love would 
have given it. But it is tempered right now — ^she is guiding me — my 
Beatrice — to a greater love — to a deeper bliss than she could have 
given.” 

Charlie here drew from his breast-pocket Lily’s* prayer-book and 
opening at the collect for the eighth Sunday after Trinity, read in a 
low, subdued, yet cheerful voice: “0 God, whose never-failing provi- 
dence ordereth all things both in heaven and earth; we humbly be- 
seech Thee to put away from us all hurtful things, and to give us 


56 


THE BATTLES AROUND RICHMOND. 


those things which are profitable for us; through Jesus Christ our 
Lord. Amen.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE BATTLES AROUND RICHMOND. 

The regiment to which Captain Vaughan’s company belonged re- 
mained for a whole year in camp below Suffolk. Wearied with this 
life of inaction the men became anxious for the excitement and laurels 
of field service. As the eventful spring of 1862 advanced it was ev- 
ident that their mettle was soon to be tried. Ordered first to York- 
town where their ufiwarlike appearance and white shirts aroused the 
merriment of the battle-stained veterans who were in the field before 
them, they were initiated into active service by w^hat then seemed to 
them the tremendous bombardment of April 15, which they stood 
like men, though a battle became a thing less to be desired after this 
experience. The re-election of officers now took place, and Captain 
Vaughan, owing to his fine discipline and the confidence reposed in 
him by the n;en, was elected Colonel of the regiment. Charlie, ow- 
ing chiefiy to his personal popularity, was elected Captain of his 
company. Soon after the march to Richmond commenced, and then 
followed the battle of Williamsburg, in which our regiment suffered 
severely. “Anderson, Wallace and Boyd fell in battle,” wrote 
Albert Vaughan to Colonel Bradford, “Bailey was left wounded on 
the field; Moore and Vernon are sick in hospital, and others will soon 
cease the march of their weary feet. Thank God! Charlie is pretty 
well, and is hopeful and cheerful — the life of the regiment.” “ We 
will have a hot time around Richmond,” wrote Charlie, “ but father — 
sister — do not fear for me. I will go forth to battle for God and my 
country with a clear conscience and a happy heart, believing that if 
I fall all will be well. It is but a little way from the battle-field to 
the Happy Land — but I hear the sound of artillery — let us trust in 
God.” 

“0 papa!” said Alice with streaming eyes as she finished Charlie’s 
letter, “should not this comfort us?” 

And now our devoted little band — a handful in that myriad host 


THE BATtLES RIGHMOHD. 


57. 


of friend and foe-^approaclies the" besieged city and lose sight of 
it in the green woods around Richmond. death-like silence falls 
over Cooleeniee; no more letters Ho tirtie for writing during those 
seven days’ battles. Exhausted each night the men sink to rest on 
the field with the scarcely-tasted food in their hands, beneath the 
serene summer sky, bringing thoughts of Heaven and peace and love 
to some, and vague yearnings and sad forebodings to others, as the 
soul is in harmony or at discord with the God of Nature. The 
friends of the soldiers — sometimes mothers, wives and sisters — were 
continually arriving in Richmond in search of dead, wounded, or 
missing loved ones. At the county-seat near Cooleemee the soldiers’ 
aid society now met daily for the purpose of providing comforts for 
the sick and wounded, to be sent by the gentlemen of the neighbor- 
hood who were constantly passing and re-passing to the scene of war. 
Alice felt as if each day would bring the Waterloo of America and 
decide the fate of Richmond and the Confederacy — ^and Oh ! for good 
or for evil, at what cost? 

The mails only reached the Court-House twice a week, but Rich- 
mond papers were daily brought up by persons visiting the army. 
One night as Alice sat with beating heart reading to her father the 
events of two dtiys previous; of S tone walljackson’s sudden approach 
thundering in the rear of the enemy, and of the astonishment of both 
armies at his appearance — she was interrupted by a knock at the door. 
Her heart paused at the unwonted sound at that hour, but a glancd 
at her father told her that he shared her fears and that she had better 
meet the visitor than he. Neither spoke, but Alice, rising, took a 
candle in her hand and went to the door. She stopped a moment to 
collect herself and pray for strength before opening it. Mechanically, 
she turned the bolt, and Doctor Pringle, who, Alice knew, had gone 
down to Richmond a few days before, stood before her. One glance 
at his face was sufficient. 

Who is it?” she asked, with hollow voice, for Albert Vaughan’s 
image too was before her. 

‘‘Charlie,” was the reply. A low cry broke from Alice, but she 
thought of her father. 

“Wounded or ?” she said, lifting her eyes to Doctor Pringle’s 

lace. 

‘‘ They will be here with the body in an hour,” he replied, averting 
his eyes. There was a moment’s silence; Colonel Bradford’s footsteps 
were henrd approaching. 


58 


THE BATTLES AROUND RICHMOND. 


“Father,” said Alice, turning to meet him and speaking slowly and 
calmly, “our Charlie is happy now.” 

The Colonel reeled and would have fallen, but was caught by his 
daughter and Doctor Pringle and borne senseless to his chamber. In 
this blessed oblivion the body of his son, attended by the faithful Ar- 
berius, reached Cooleemee. The cries of the servants— even poor old 
Mammy’s shrieks — and the howls of Rush were impatiently hushed 
by Doctor Pringle, who scolded them to keep from sobbing himself; 
and in silence the body of the young heir — the bright and beautiful 
darling of all — which was borne triumphantly on their shoulders a 
few short months before, was carried by the servants through the 
gate, across the greensward, under the shadow of the green, living 
tree which his boyish hands had planted, over the threshold, and laid 
lovingly to rest in the drawing-room. 

Slowly the Colonel returned to consciousness and all Alice’s efforts 
were required to comfort and sustain him. This trial fell far more 
heavily on Colonel Bradford than the supposed death of his eldest 
son. Charlie was his pet, his darling; his sunny spirit had ever made 
him the light of the house, softening even the gloomy aspect of his 
father’s character. He was named for the Colonel, and Cooleemee 
was to have been his inheritance. He had never left his father ex- 
cept for college and the field, and he never intended to leave him. 
Visions of an old age with Charlie’s children around his knees, and 
Charlie’s loving, manly arm to lean on, had often floated before the 
Colonel’s mind. And now life lay blank, dreary, desolate before him. 
Alice, on the contrary, in the midst of her heart-bereavement was 
sustained by bright — almost joyous — thoughts of her young, beauti- 
ful brother. Those words from his last tetter: “T will go forth to 
battle for God and my country with a clear conscience and a happy 
heart, believing that if I fall all will be well,” continually rose before 
her to cheer and help her. 

“A clear conscience and a happy heart!” What a picture of Char- 
lie! even the unconscious, graceful alliteration so like him. And his 
death like his life had been a victory; not one born of years of suf- 
fering and trial, but quick and short — soon over. As the joyous 
shouts that heralded the approach of Stonewall Jackson broke on the 
air, Charlie fell, struck by a chance shot in the temple, and lay radi- 
ant in death. To him it had been “ but a little way from the battle- 
field to the Happy Land.” And now — freed from sin and sorrow — 
he was ««/e, basking in the smile of his God and Saviour; and he was 


HOME ON FURLOUGH. 


59 


with Lily too — their love perfected. 0! Alice could rejoice for him. 
All was right now; except for her father all things concerning Char- 
lie working in beautiful harmony, and as Alice looked at the stricken, 
aged face she felt that for him it might soon all be well too. 

Mr. Moore arrived the next morning and in the evening, amidst 
the tears of friends and servants who had known him from his boy- 
haod — with all Nature smiling her henediclte around — the body of 
Charles Bradford was laid to rest beside his mother until the resur- 
rection of the last day. “Happy,” says the poet, “are they who die 
in their youth, when their renown is around them.” “ Blessed,” says 
the inspired writer, “are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest 
from their labours and their works do follow them," 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOME ON FURLOUGH. 

The first of August found Colonel Vaughan on sick furlough at 
Cooleemee. General debility, accompanied by a low fever, entirely 
unfitted him for field -service and his surgeon prescribed that elixir of 
life during the war, “Home,” for him. To his own solitary home he 
did not once think of going, and Cooleemee, saddened and darkened 
by the withdrawal of the light which had shed a brightness on it 
even from the din of war, opened wide its. doors and hearts to him. 
Colonel Vaughan, like most men, was fond of being petted, and as 
the long-known friend of the family, Charlie’s friend, and a sick 
soldier, there was every plea for Alice’s loving heart and graceful im- 
agination to encircle him with all the charms of home and sweet 
womanly attentions. “ He may be the nextf thought Alice, as she 
read the letter announcing his furlough; “ God helping me this visit 
shall be a bright spot in life to him.” The most pleasant room in the 
house was prepared for him — the one commanding the best view of 
the low-grounds and river. The lounge, the arm-chair, the desk, 
books, vases, pictures, flowers, all were selected and arranged by Alice’s 
own hands, and looked indeed a little Eden to Colonel Vaughan in 
contrast with the rude tent he had left. The choicest viands — things 


60 


HOME OH FURLOUGH. 


long hoarded for Charlie and himself — were spread before him. Alice 
herself, more lovely and spirituelle than ever, flitted about like a fairy 
anticipating his slightest want. “This is indeed worth a soldier 'S 
life,” said Colonel Vaughan, enthusiastically, the morning after he 
reached Cooleemee as he lay on his lounge near the open window. 
Colonel Bradford in the arm-chair near him, and Alice sitting at a 
little distance. 

And thus the pleasant days went by. Colonel Bradford was never 
weary of hearing of Charlie; of his daring and cheerfulness, and of 
'the happy influence he exerted in camp. “His buoyancy never 
failed,” said Colonel Vaughan, “even during that wearing march from 
Yorktown to Richmond, though he sometimes looked pale and weary 
his spirit never succumbed. He was always ready with a bright word 
or jest to cheer the flagging spirits of the men. And Charlie’s mirth 
was as pure and sparkling as the dew-drops that glisten on the leaves. 
A profane word or low jest was hushed at his approach as soon as at 
the chaplain’s. One of the officers told me that once, Charlie, hearing 
an obscene remark from a soldier, turned on him a face bright but 
awful: ‘John,’ said he, ‘with death ever near you, and the assurance 
that none but the pure in heart shall see God, how dare you have 
such a thought as that?’ From one less popular and less upright in 
his conduct this would not have been tolerated; but truly Charlie 
was a living epistle known and read of all men.” 

The image of her young brother’s face, bright and awful in its re- 
buke of sin, rose before Alice and she thought of St. John’s descrip- 
tion Gf the divine beauty of the Son of Man in the Apocalypse 
“ Out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword, and his counte- 
nance was as the sun shineth in his strength.” Him,” she 

thought, “and Him now.” 

“Here is a letter from brother, papa,” said Alice, entering her 
father’s room a few days after Colonel Vaughan’s arrival. The Col- 
onel took it and nervously broke the seal, but in a moment uttered 
an exclamation of pleasure, and then bursting into tears, handed the 
letter to Alice. “Read it aloud,” he said, “it is good news.” Alice 
took the letter and read as follows : 

August 4, 1862. 

My Dearest Father : — I know that you will rejoice with me when T 
tell you that the hope for which I prepared you some time ago has 
been realized. This morning my wife gave birth to a son — “mother 
and child doing well.” This precious boon denied us during the 
“piping times of peace” has come to gild the dark cloud of war, and 


HOME OH FURLOUGH. 


61 


to you, my beloved father, another Charles Bradford is given^ a grand- 
son to bless your declining years, I came home on furlough, but have 
been pronounced unfit for field-service, and appointed Commandant of 
the post; so I shall now have the happiness of remaining with my 
wife and son. Kate sends her best love to you and Alice, and says 
she longs to place our Charlie in your arms. You must set to work 
now and arrange matters so as to come and spend the winter with us. 
With my heart-warm love to Alice, and wishing you both to unite 
with me in thankfulness to the Giver of all good, ever, my dearest 
father, Your devoted son, 

Edward Bradford. 

“ Truly God is good,” said the Colonel with streaming eyes as Alide 
finished the letter; “Alice, I feel now that I can give Charlie up.” 
And as the days wore on Alice was struck with the meetness of the 
discipline that had united in her father's soul; the death of his son 
and the birth of his grandson; they seemed to be the storm and the 
sunshine needed to give strength and verdure to his spirit; the union 
of suffering and hope producing submission and thankfulness. 

“Another Charles Bradford will live at Cooleemee,” said he to Alice, 
“ though I will not be here to see it.” 

Alice wondered how such hopes could be founded on the life of a 
frail infant, but she could not bear to disturb her father by such a 
doubt. “People are so different,” she thought; “I have looked on so 
much sorrow that everything seems to me uncertain, and much that 
men value of little worth.” 

Buoyed up with his new hopes the Colonel walked and rode over 
his farm as usual, and Alice and Colonel Vaughan were left much to- 
gether. Books were the usual topic of conversation between them, 
especially books on theology — the “ Queen of the Sciences.” It was 
a great pleasure to them both to speak of the beauty of the Church; 
of the harmony between the Jewish and Christian Church; of the 
comprehensive Liturgy — sublime as the great mountains — beautiful 
as Nature's fairest landscapes — the heart of a mother in its love and 
care from the cradle to the grave for the wandering as well as for the 
faithful child. And then Alice told him how beautiful seemed to her 
the doctrines of the Church, especially the doctrine of Christ’s im- 
puted righteousness, which to her poetic imagination was invested 
with a glory and a beauty exceeding everything else; while its ex- 
quisite logic was delightful to her reason. Fallen, lost in Adam; re- 
deemed, saved in Christ: purified from original and actual sin in the 
blood that cleanse th from all sin, and clothed in the “wedding gar- 
ment” of Christ's righteousness — mind, soul, body, co^nplete in Him. 


62 


HOME OH FURLOUGH. 


Colonel Vaughan looked earnestly at Alice as new thoughts of 
God and love — the heavenly and the human — broke over his soul; 
and Alice was satisfied, for she had yearned for him to share the high 
and holy thoughts of love and religion which she had reached since 
she saw him last. With such a companion,” thought he, “if I live 
to the end of the war, what a study will theology be! How will 1 
rejoice in her sweet sympathy and angelic mind.” 

But did these lovers talk only of theology— of the war — of Nature 
and books — ^and of the sacred and beloved dead? Yes, only of these. 
Sometimes, when Albert saw a look of patient sorrow, or of tried af- 
fection, which occasionally appeared in Alice’s face, he found it pecu- 
liarly hard to refrain from expressing his love to her. Alice’s quick 
eye perceived this- and it disturbed her. “He does not think that he 
ought to tell me now,” she thought; “his is a harder trial than mine 
to bear. I will help him to bear it by my unwavering love and trust.” 

During all this visit Colonel Vaughan was watching Alice closely. 
As he noted the slightest manifestations of her temperament and 
thought over her peculiar religious difficulties, he became convinced 
that she had the exquisitely-susceptible nervous temperament so often 
allied to genius. He could see in her the same mental idiosyncrasy 
which distinguished Rousseau and Bunyan and Luther. She was 
peculiarly like Bunyan in her morbid conscientiousness, and in the 
harrowing thoughts which had so fearfully assailed her. In her a 
gifted but not yet sufficiently developed and informed reason was 
struggling, to control a lofty imagination, highly-susceptible nervous 
temperament, excessive sensibility and morbid cons(jientiousness. No 
wonder, with her neglected, desultory education, that the struggle 
should be long and painful. And he also saw in h^?r — and the last 
year had proven it — an element of good sense and prudence, which 
greatly modified his fears for her. But he saw also that this element 
must be developed and strengthened alone ; th^t leaning upon him it 
would never be done; and until order and harmony were restored to 
a mind and temperament like Alice’s, physically and mentally she 
was unprepared for marriage. “It is a trying ordeal,” thought Col- 
onel Vaughan as he turned on his restless pilloAv, “but 1 accept it.” 
And then came the doubt^ “Can she bear it? Will she understand 
me? May she not wither and fade under it? Or give the love which 
I seem long in claiming to another man,?’', “Have faith in God,” 
arose in his mind, and then Newman’s words: — 

“ I do not ask to see the distant way, 

One step enough lor me.” * 


HOME OH FURLOUGH. 


63 


The next morning as Colonel Vaughan sat by the window, and 
Alice at a little distance turning over the pages of Tennyson, he 
turned to her suddenly: “The breath of those roses! Alice, how they 
carry me back to a summer morning years ago when I sat with Mary 
in the porch at Morotock. I remember,” he continued, half-dreamily, 
looking out of the window, “her appearance on that morning; her 
golden hair, soft, blue eyes and the rose in her cheek,” — ^he paused 
evidently lost in deeper and tenderer recollections. The blood which 
had flashed over Alice’s face at the first mention of Mary’s name re- 
ceded, leaving her pale as marble. Albert started from his reverie 
and saw the compressed lip, and mute look of suffering in Alice’s eyes. 
The blood rushed to his own face. “ I must not speak of her thus 
again,” he thought. But Alice looked steadily in his eyes and said, 
“I remember her as one of the loveliest visions of my childhood; her 
golden hair and Madonna-like features will ever live in my memory ” — 
when Mammy suddenly appeared at the door, asking her aid in a 
“new-fangled” dish for which Colonel Vaughan had expressed a lik- 
ing, and Alice left the room. 

The pudding finished, Alice sought her own room. She felt utterly 
unable to return to Colonel Vaughan’s apartment then. With an 
inward cry for help she had controlled herself so as to reply to him 
quietly, and in some measure to give him the sympathy which she 
felt to be one of woman’s highest duties to the man she loves. But 
as the thought of his look and manner, even more than of his words, 
returned to her, the pent-up storm broke forth afresh. “It is cruel^ 
it is cruel,” she thought, “to speak to me thus — under these circum- 
stances. And to him she seems so lovely — as people always do when 
they die. Lily told me once he said that Eve before the Fall could 
scarcely have looked lovelier to Adam than she to him; that of course 
he knew she had faults, but he never saw them. And he knows all 
my faults so well — and can make so little allowance for them. As 
much as I would hate to marry a widower, I had rather they had 
marned, for then he would have seen her hair crumpled and known 
her out of temper sometimes. But what am I doing? Wishing that 
ihey had married that he might know her faults — and she an angel 
in Heaven. 0 God! forgive me, and help me to be willing that he 
should love her.” 

It was some time before Alice was sufficiently composed to meet 
Colonel Vaughan; and when she did there were traces on her coun- 
tenance of subdued suffering— of a battle fought and won. Albert 


64 


HELP m HEED. 


winced as he met her look, but recovered himself immediately. “ I 
will help her to overcome,” he thought; “by God’s help, I will shrink 
from nought that is for her perfection.” 

But one of -earth’s silent, unknown heroes, back to the field, Albert 
Vaughan! Back to hunger and thirst — to cold and weariness — to 
blood and slaughter — afar from the sweet light of home and loved 
ones, to fight for truth and right against a world — and perhaps to 
fail. No, not to fail; to those who follow the light that God gives, a 
nation may fall, a cause be lost, but there’s no such thing as failure. 


CHAPTER V. 

HELP IN NEED. 

A deep and quiet melancholy fell on Alice Bradford after Colonel 
Vaughan’s departure. Almost unconsciously to herself she had hoped 
that he would not return to the army without giving her some more 
decided evidence of his love. But with the last, long pressure of his 
hand and the “ God bless you,” which seemed to start almost like a 
living thing from his lips, “Hope withering fled.” Alice was con- 
scious of her condition, but it seemed impossible for her to rouse her- 
self from it. The re-action following Charlie’s death and the effort 
to sustain her father, with Colonel Vaughan’s visit and departure, was 
now telling sadly on a delicate nervous system. Her father was oc- 
cupied by thoughts of his grandson, and making preparations to leave 
home for a visit to his son. The advent of the Southern army into 
Maryland and the battles of Boonesborough and Sharpsburg had all 
taken place while Colonel Vaughan lay a prisoner on his couch at 
Cooleemee, and there was now a comparative lull in the storm of war. 
Colonel Vaughan wrote frequently either to Alice or her father; brief, 
orderly, business-like letters — little difference in them. If you had 
suppressed the “Dear Alice,” or, “My Dear Colonel” at the top, you 
would scarcely have known to which of the two they were written. 
Those loveless letters of a lover! Alice’s melancholy was only re- 
lieved by a sharper pang when they were received, till she grew so 
morbid about them that it was only after a silent prayer for strength 


HELP IH HEED. 


(55 


that she ventured to open them. Her mind and heart neither seemed 
to move actively towards God and Christ during this period; she felt 
no anxious doubt, only a passive rest, sinking like a wearied child on 
her Redeemer’s breast. It was the gloaming time to her soul; a time 
when it was neither light nor darkness. 

Mr. Moore had observed the recent change in Alice and was at a 
loss to what to attribute it. The re-action from the excitement of 
the last few months was not a sufficient reason to account for its con- 
tinuance. Since Alice’s former reserve towards her pastor had given 
way to sympathy and confidence she had told him something of her 
religious difficulties, and he wondered if any new phase of her trying 
experience was disturbing her. He saw that Alice looked pale and 
thinner on each of his visits although she made no complaint and the 
Colonel did not seem to notice it. Mr. Moore knew that Colonel 
Bradford was not a man to entrust with any spiritual or mental diffi- 
culty, and determined himself to try and draw from Alice the cause 
of her dejection. “Could it be anything of the heart?” he thought; 

“ ‘its muckle that sorrow and heart-break, and crossing of true love, 
will do wi’ young blood,’ — but no — I have heard of nothing of the 
kind; and there has been no one here, except Vaughan, and he would 
never think of Alice — nor Alice of him.” 

An opportunity soon occurred for Mr. Moore to put his resolution 
in practice. One evening about the last of November he arrived on 
his usual visit to Cooleemee. The Colonel had gone up to the Court- 
House on business. Alice looked worse than ever, and Mr. Moore 
immediately resolved to take this opportunity of speaking to her. He 
sat for a while, according to his custom before taking off his over- 
coat and leggings, talking on different subjects. As he commenced 
untying his leggings Alice approached to assist him. 

“My dear child,” said he, bending his eyes on her face as she 
stooped by his side, “ you are looking thin — are you not well ? ” Over- 
come by this sudden and unexpected expression of sympathy, Alice 
dropped the legging, leaned her head on Mr. Moore’s arm and burst 
into tears. 

“My child,” said Mr. Moore, much moved, stroking back the 
hair from her forehead, “is there anything that I can do for you? 
Have you had a return of those distressing religious perplexities?” 

“ ]^o — no,” said Alice, endeavoring to control herself; and then as 
it flashed across her mind what a relief it would be to have Mr. 
Moore’s advice in her present state of mind, “0 Mr. Moore!” she 


66 


HELP IN HEED. 


said, blushing and smiling through her tears at the idea, “could you 
bear to hear a love-story ? ” 

“Certainly,” said Mr. Moore, a little gravely, “if I can help you in 
any way, Alice; but I had not supposed it was anything of the kind.” 

Drawing a stool to his feet, Alice turned a little aside and leaning 
her head upon her hand began at the beginning and told him the 
whole; her fearful religious difficulties; her confidence in Albert 
Vaughan at a time when “I did not know and trust you as I do now, 
Mr. Moore,” she said, appealingly; his sympathy with her and the 
new love which had sprung up between them; her own temporary 
alienation from him; her belief that he still loved her, and her per- 
plexities at his prolonged silence on the subject. “ My heart trusts 
him,” she said, “ but my head is full of doubts. Why, if he loves 
me, does he not tell me. so? The thought that he may be sick or 
wounded at any time and I without the right to say a word, or go to 
him, preys on me. You know him, Mr. Moore — you have known 
him long — why does he do so?” 

“I think that 1 understand Albert,” said Mr. Moore, who had been 
listening in attentive silence. “Alice, can you bear to hear some un- 
pleasant truths in his justification?” 

“Yes, anything,” said Alice; “I only wish to know the truth.” 

“ If ever mortal possessed by nature what is rarely gained by edu- 
cation, the ‘rascally virtue of ]3rudence,’ ” said Mr. Moore, smiling, 
“it is Albert Vaughan. I taught him once when he was quite a boy, 
and I remember how much he was struck by the reply of Timotheus 
when Chares was exhibiting to the Athenians the wounds which 
Tiuiotheus had received whilst their General: ‘I, for my part,’ said 
he, ‘was much ashamed, for I had behaved too like a young man and 
not as became the commander of so great an armament.’ I thought 
then, what other boy would have noticed or appreciated that? Alice, 
Albert Vaughan would not have chosen you to be his wife; you are 
too romantic, too visionary for him ; but he has fallen in love with 
you, my child, and you must pay the penalty for it. But it is worth 
a great deal to a woman to be loved by such a man; he will be true 
to you forever. His is the most constant nature I ever knew. You 
know of his love for Mary Howard. I do not doubt that he loves 
you, Alice, but he will never forget her. With him to love once is to 
love forever. You do not know how much you shocked him by your 
temporary alienation from him. I have no idea that he understood it, 
and he will be long in recovering from it. Alice, you must try and 


HELP IN need; 67 

prove yourself worthy of the ordeal through which you are passing; 
for if you do not, though Albert loves you, he will never tell you so. 
Do you think me harsh, my child? I thought it better that you 
should know the truth.” 

‘‘0 no!” said Alice, rising and extending her hand to him, “I do 
thank you, Mr. Moore.” Here the}^ were interrupted by the entrance 
of the Colonel. 

After this conversation Alice’s spirits regained their usual cheerful- 
ness. It was such a relief to feel that she did not bear her burden 
alone; that a wise and good man was ready with counsel and sympa- 
thy whenever she felt their need. The thought that no one shared 
her feelings and doubts had weighed on her sensitive spirit, bewilder- 
ing her at times and making her feel as if the whole was a dream of 
the imagination. Mr. Moore saw, however, that Alice’s mind must 
be employed as a balance to the heart, and he directed her attention 
anew to healthful theological works. Among these was “Theodicy,” 
by Professor Bledsoe. Alice soon became deeply interested in this 
book. The thoughts were so original and simple, the style so beauti- 
ful and clear; altogether the whole so attractive to her mind. The 
scattered rays of truth seemed to converge more fully here than else- 
where. She had always followed undoubtingly the common teaching 
that God 'permits sin; and not until she read “Theodicy” did the 
thought flash into her mind like a ray of light that God does not per- 
mit sin; that it is done without His permission. This seemed so clear 
and simple and satisfactory when known that Alice realized the truth 
of the saying, “ When the true metaphysics shall appear, it will be 
like a reminiscence of what was before known.” Professor Bledsoe’s 
theory of the Origin of Evil gave a satisfaction to her mind she had 
never known before. Man as a spiritual being made in the image of 
God must have freedom of choice and will. If he has not, what is 
he more than a stock or stone? Man cannot be governed by the 
same laws that govern the material universe any more than “the sun 
and moon can be governed by the Ten Commandments.” God can- 
not work contrary to His own nature and laws; He cannot make two 
and two more or less than four.” These thoughts brought exquisite 
delight to Alice ; as lovely views to the eye, music to the ear, and fra- 
grance to the nostril, they were to her mind. There was about them 
a reasonableness, a clearness, a fitness to things — to the character of 
God, and to the condition of the world and of man such as she had 
never known before. She thought of what Lord Bacon has said: 


68 


HELP IH NEED. 


“ It is a view of delight to stand or walk upon the shore-side, and to 
see a ship tossed with tempests upon the sea; or to be in a fortified 
tower and to see two battles join upon the plain; but it is a pleasure 
incomparable for the mind of man to be settled, landed, and fortified 
in the certainty of truth; and from thence to descry and behold the 
errors, perturbations, labors, and wanderings up and down of other 
men.” But it would have been no “ view of delight ” to Alice to wit- 
ness troubles in which she bore no part; rather would she have 
yearned to join the tempest-tossed mariner on the sea, or to have 
poured comfort into the heart and balm into the wounds of the dying 
soldier; and a longing filled her soul to lead others, so far as she 
might, from the wilderness of perplexities and doubt into the clear 
and settled land of truth. 

But a new cause of anxiety sprang up in the Colonehs failing 
health ; the buoyancy of spirits which followed the news of the birth 
of his grandson gave way in a few weeks to greater depression, though 
he still continued his preparations for the visit to his son. Doctor 
Pringle shook his head and looked grave when Mr. Moore questioned 
him concerning the Colonel’s health. 

Early in December Mr. Edward Bradford came over on a hurried 
visit, bringing marvellous accounts of Charlie’s beauty and precocity, 
in all of which he was corroborated by letters from his wife. Mr. 
Bradford was much touched by the appearance of failing health in 
his father, and only left after drawing from him a promise to come 

over to before Christmas and spend the winter. “As soon as 

everything is arranged for the people and the stock,” said the Colo- 
nel, taking his pipe from his lips, “as Triptolemus Yellowley sa3^s, 
‘The carles and the cart-avers make it all, and the carles and the 
cart-avers eat it all.’ What between bad crops and taxes there may 
not be too much to eat. I met a little darkey the other day in such 
a state of vociferous delight that I could not stand it. ‘You young 
scamp,’ I said, ‘where are you going to get anything to eat?’ ‘At 
Granny’s house,’ was the immediate reply, as the urchin continued 
his antics in that direction. Poor things! they and the soldiers are 
welcome to it all.” 

The time for leaving was delayed for a few days that the Colonel 
and Alice might be present at the marriage of Arberius and Celia. 
Arberius had become so much attached to Celia during his absence 
from home, Charlie and Alice acting as amanuensis for each and in- 
dicting epistles not found in “The Complete Letter-Writer,” that. 


HELP-tJf NEED., - • . .. Oyi. 

contrary- to the negroes’ usual custom, he had chosen.- his. with at . 
home. After Charlie’s death Arberius would return no more to the 
field. Unlike the Anglo-Saxon when he begins to rove, the African 
desires only to return to his own vine and fig-tree. 

The time for the ceremony was fixed for two days preceding Christ- 
mas, instead of the negroes’ usual time, Christmas, that the Colonel 
and Alice might be present. Alice,, in the meantime, was engaged in 
getting up the bride’s trousseau, bridal veil and fiowers growing rather 
scarce in the Confederacy. The afternoon before the day appointed 
for the marriage Alice walked down to the house of the bride-elect to 
superintend the bridal preparations and dress the bride’s cake. 
Adorning it to Celia’s satisfaction, she left the cabin and walked 
slowly towards the house. Passing along the line of cabins she en- 
countered Uncle Israel, Mammy’s husband, a decrepit old negro af- 
flicted with asthma, sunning himself on the door-step. 

“I fotch my breath better out of doors. Miss Alice,” he said, in 
reply to her enquiries. 

‘‘Yes, Uncle Israel,” said Alice, “I would stay out as much. as I 
could in the pleasant air and sun; it will do you good,” andfirawing 
a small prayer-book from her pocket, Alice seated herself on the-clean 
door-step beside him and read the evening. Psalms. 

“Thank you kindly, Miss Alice,” said he as she finished.; religion 
is a great thing. I want to be a changed man; you used .to .be .as 
wild and rattlin’ as anybody, and now you’ve conie . to .. be mild, .^nd 
pious and tenderful and careful and fearful by looking to God. Come 
agin, Miss Alice, for I can’t get out now to see what the hands are 
doin’ and what the horses are e^tm’.” “ The best performed and the 

sweetest faceted young lady in Virginny, is my young mistis,” solilo- 
quized Uncle Israel as Alice walked away. 

And was she so changed? thought Alice — “ mild and pious and 
tenderful and careful and fearful by looking to God,” — notwithstand- 
ing all the tribulations of the way. A sweet peace fell on her heart 
as she thought of the good she might do by faithfully struggling 
against her difficulties, and trying to bear her burden whatever it 
might be. She looked yearningly forward to the visit to her brother, 
for then she would have access to the hospitals, and an opportunity 
not to be lost of trying to do good to men of all classes; for Alice 
possessed in an eminent degree the womanly instinct of desiring to 
elevate and help the other sex. 

Alice was pleased as she drew near the house to see Mr. Moore’s 


70 


THE HOSPITALS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


well-known black mare, and to meet him in the hall. “I was appre- 
hensive of rain to-morrow,” he said, “and would not disappoint Ar- 
berius and Celia; besides wishing to see as much as possible of your 
father and yourself before you leave.” 

Alice entered the dining-room and rang the bell for supper to be 
brought in. Ever afterwards the slightest events of that evening 
were photographed in her memory. During tea her father was un- 
usually cheerful, talking of their visit to his son. After tea he pro- 
posed to have some music: “None of your new-fangled tunes, Alice, 
but Scotch songs; they remind me of your mother.” Alice sang as 
she did most things, pretty much as nature prompted her, and played 
by ear; but her voice was sweet and her touch soft. As she sang one 
after another of those sweetest of Scotch songs, “ Highland Mary,” 
“Wandering Willie,” “Dainty Davie,” “Bonnie Doon,” “Auld Lang 
Syne,” winding up with “Wha’ll be king but Charlie?” she was 
joined by Mr. Moore’s fine bass. As she turned from the piano she 
observed that her father’s head had fallen a little,' and thought that 
he was asleep. She sat for awhile talking to Mr. Moore, whose 
reminiscences had been stirred by the songs, and then approaching 
her father laid her hand on his. Something in the touch startled 
her, and she looked appealingly at Mr. Moore, who came forward and 
laid his hand on the Colonel’s forehead. With a half-suppressed ex- 
clamation he sought the wrist and heart; and then extending his 
arms he drew Alice to him, and Alice felt that she was fatherless ! 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE HOSPITALS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 

“ Ytt not more surely shall the Spring awake 
The voice of wood and brake, 

Than phe shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms, 

A million men to arms. 

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains 

Than all her sun-lit rains 

And every gladdening influence round 

Can summons from the ground,'*— JTenry Timrod. 

The Spring of 1863 found Alice Bradford an inmate of her broth- 
er’s house in . By the Colonel’s will Cooleemee was left to 

the little Charles Bradford; the greater number of the servants and 


THE HOSPITALS OF THE CONPEDERACT. 


71 


a fine plantation near, to Alice. Edward Bradford, Colonel Vaughan 
and Doctor Pringle were left executors of the will. Alice felt her 
father’s death more than Charlie’s, although there was less sympathy 
between them; it was more unexpected and there was less to buoy 
her up under it. A shadow seemed to fall on all around her at the 
thought that she was an orphan. There was such strangeness in be- 
ginning life anew without the presence she had never known life 
without. She knew not before how much she had depended on her 
father; how much her own mind in some respects resembled his; 
That enlightenment concerning the character of a beloved one which, 
so often comes after death, was hers now. And it was not her 
brother’s affection, nor the baby’s beauty and sprightliness that 
aroused her now, but the thought of the hospitals. How she had 
yearned for them! Woman’s true place now, she thought. She had 
received a long, sympathetic letter from Colonel Vaughan on her 
father’s death; he seemed particularly to feel that she was called to 
meet her bereavement so suddenly, and yet thankful that the shock 
was tempered by Mr. Moore’s presence. There were traces, as if of 
tears, on the last page of the letter; and while Alice was saddened at 
the thought of his sadness, it comforted her. “Can it be,” she 
thought, “that it tries him, as it does me, not to tell me he loves 
me? ” She wrote him thankfully — trustingly — striving in every way 
io help and comfort him. 

Dr. Pringle accompanied Alice to town and obtained the situation 
of hospital surgeon; his old friend gone and Cooleemee deserted he 
])referred to go to the hospitals. “ 1 had rather see the suffering than 
stay at home and think about it,” said he. Colonel Bradford wished 
Mammy and her husband to follow' Alice, but Mammy stoutly refused 
to do so. She would stay and take care of things, she said, for Miss 
Alice. Mammy had no idea of permitting the little Charles Brad- 
ford to have the place — “and who knows,” soliloquized she, “what 
sort of a person Mas’ Ed’ard’s wife’ll be for me to live with; she 
wanted me to show her how to make soft soap, and said it was better 
to wash with than hard— a thing never heard of in the Bradford 
family!”^ and Mammy shook her head with offended pride. And so 
Mammy was left to take care of Cooleemee, and the house was shut 
up, and the snow fell softly over the graves of Charlie and his father 
and mother, and the winds whistled their requiem through the leaf- 
less trees. 

Arberius and Celia were married by Mr. Moore as soon as a sufli- 


72 THE HOSPITALS OF THE COKFEDERACT. 

cient time had elapsed for them to feel that the Colonel’s death-w^ 
not an ominous sign portending evil to their union. Alice’s worst 
trial was in leaving Mr. Moore; since her father’s death his sympathy 
and tenderness for her had been unfailing. “ Write to me some- 
times, my child,” said he as he pressed her to his heart at parting, 
“and do not fear to trust Albert; he will be true to you.” 

Alice was much struck by the face of a lady, a fellow-traveller on 
the cars. She was apparently about fifty years of age, of stately, 
dignified presence, wifch noble features, and an expression of calm 
serenity, such as Alice had never seen equalled. “ So He bringetb 
them to the haven where they would be,” thought Alice as she looked 
at the pure, thoughtful face scarcely touched by time, save in the 
silvered hair. “Surely she has passed the waves of this troublesome 
world, and nought can disturb her now.” 

It was a great pleasure to Alice to meet Mr. Henderson again. In 
heart and simplicity of character they were much alike, although in 
mind they were totally different. 

“Alice,” said Colonel Bradford as they sat at the breakfast-table the 
morning after her arrival, “I must introduce you to Mrs. Parker; she 
is one of the most constant visitors at the hospitals, and between her 
and Doctor Pringle I hope none of the soldiers will run away with 
you. And hy-the-way, Mr. Henderson said last night that Mrs. 
Parker returned yesterday from her visit to her son in the Army of 
Northern Virginia.” 

In a day or two Alice met with Mrs. Parker, and to her surprise 
and delight found her to be the lady with whose face she had been so 
much struck on the cars. And now commenced in earnest the long- 
looked-for, joyfully-hoped-for work in the hospitals. The Virginia 
battle-fields brought within her grasp and vision ; an opportunity of 
doing good to men which Alice felt rarely comes in life and must not 
be missed. 

There was a hospital in the city under the particular direction of 
the ladies to which special patients were carried and nursed with ex- 
traordinary care; but Mrs. Parker and Alice did not confine them- 
selves to this, but extended their visits to the tobacco-factories used 
for hospitals, and also to the wards lying in the beautiful suburbs of 
the city. The factories served admirably for hospitals; they were 
three staries in height, large, airy, and comfortable, containing many 
windows, and heated by stoves. They were amply supplied with 
reading matter of various kinds — Bibles, prayer-books, tracts, news- 


THE HOSPITALS OP THE CONFEDERACY. 


7a 


papers, novels and old magazines, and through Alice’s exertions pleas- 
ant and well-selected pictures soon adorned the hitherto bare, white- 
washed walls, giving variety to the scene and something of taste and 
home-comfort to the sick men. The chaplain, Rev. Mr. Garter, was 
earnest and enthusiastic in his work, and of great delicacy and sensi- 
tiveness of feeling. The soldiers were devotedly attached to him, and 
Mrs. Parker and Alice found in him a warm co-worker in their plans. 

It was Alice’s delight to be present occasionally when Dr. Pringle 
went on his rounds in the hospitals. She looked in wonder at the 
quick sagacity, the intuitive comprehension of a disease and its treat- 
ment; the soothing remedies prescribed where nought remained hut 
to soothe^ and the efficacious ones in other cases. She found Mrs. 
Parker’s face only an index to the rarest and finest character she had 
known; a woman of the highest culture, and of an order of piety, 
elevated, comprehensive and devoted, such as Alice had never seen 
before. Alice’s great delight in visiting the hospitals was the con- 
sciousness of the good she did; to listen to the story of one; to write 
a letter for another; to supply some much-needed comfort — or luxury 
in Confederate times — to another; to be told by one, as a tear was 
brushed away, “you make me think of my mother;” to carry some 
“sassa/rac iea” to another, “because it was so much dike home;” or 
to be told between a smile, a blush, and a sigh, “you look like Cousin 
Nancy Ann.” 

One day while going the rounds of the hospital, Alice paused at 
the bed-side of a soldier lying dressed outside the cover, but evidently 
suffering. “A severe headache,” said he to her look of inquiry. She 
drew from her basket a bottle of hartshorn and handed it to him, 
“and let me try the efficacy of rubbing,” she said in a pleasant tone; 
“ my brothers have told me that I possessed mesmeric power in that 
way.” She pressed the throbbing temples with her cool, soft hands, 
and then rubbed them gently for a few minutes when the soldier 
looked up in her face with surprise. 

“ Thank you,” he said, “ it is much better — I think it will soon be 
gone.” 

“ I will rub it a few minutes more and disperse it so entirely that it 
cannot collect its scattered forces,” said Alice smiling. 

They entered into conversation and Alice found that he was an 
Alabamian ; had been in the service since the beginning of the war, 
and was in the battles around Richmond the previous Spring. 

“I should like,” said Alice, “to know how a soldier feels just before 


74 


THB HOSPITALS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


going into battle. It seems to me that it would be one of those mo- 
ments in life when we see things as they are; when all that is false 
and frivolous would be torn away, and the realities of eternity would 
rise up suddenly before us.” 

“You are right,” said the Alabamian, “but yet it depends much on 
the character of the man. I remember the mere physical joy that 
one of my comrades used to express every night that he was not 
killed that day. I believe that I thought more of my mother’s 
prayers for me just before going into battle than of anything else. 
When you are once in battle there is no time to think of anything. 
You do indeed possess mesmeric power-; my head is quite well except 
a little heaviness, which may be its normal condition,” he continued, 
looking up with a grateful smile. 

“An interesting patient,” thought Alice as she moved away; “I 
must see more of him, and find out What his religious views are.” 

Mrs. Parker and Alice visited the different hospitals alternately 
and separately, regarding it under existing circumstances an unnec- 
essary expenditure of force for them to go together. Several days 
therefore elapsed before Alice again visited the hospital of her friend, 
the Alabamian. As she entered the long, low ward, with its array of 
beds stretching away before her, she observed a group — surgeons, 
matrons and soldiers collected around a bed, which she in a moment 
felt to be that of the Alabamian. The crowd opened silently as she 
approached, and she saw the figure of the young man, dressed as she 
had seen him a few days before, stretched out on the bed — asleep, she 
might have thought, but for the solemn throng around. Doctor 
Pringle had just finished an examination of the heart. A medallion 
attached to a blue ribbon around the neck, had been thrown care- 
lessly aside, revealing the fresh, fair face of a young girl. 

“ There is no life here,” said the Doctor as Alice approached. 

“0, but cannot something be done!” exclaimed Alice, in a moment 
comprehending the scene. 

“ Do anything you please,” said the Doctor a little shortly, to con- 
ceal his own emotion. And the feet and hands were chafed, and va- 
rious restoratives were brought, but all in vain — life was extinct. 

“He walked out this morning to the burial of a soldier,” said the 
ward-master, “ and on returning complained of being tired and laid 
down on his bed to rest. Dinner was brought in for the sick, and a 
nurse carried his to him; he raised up to take it but immediately fell 
back on his pillow, and has never moved since.” 


THE HOSPITALS OP THE CONFEDERACY. 


75 


And there be lay — dead in a moment — in his young, manly beauty. 
The hair clustered as in life around the marble forehead; the beam- 
ing, intelligent eyes were closed; around the firmly-set mouth and 
graceful moustache lay a lingering sweetness: the lithe, recumbent 
figure was neatly, carefully attired as if he knew many eyes would 
rest upon him. By his side lay the smiling picture of the fair young 
girl — on the table by the bed, the untasted dinner. And that precious 
gem, the immortal spirit, was gone — where? 

Alice controlled herself sufiiciently to finish the rounds of the hos- 
pitals, and then went home and to her room, locked the door, threw 
herself on her couch, and gave way to a burst of tears. But she 
knew that this would not do; that she would be rendered entirely un- 
fit for her work in the hospitals if she did not learn to control her- 
self, and look calmly on scenes of suffering and death. So she made 
a great effort to cast it all on Grod, and then descended to Mrs. Brad- 
ford’s room in search of the baby. Charlie, fresh from his morning’s 
nap, stretched his little hands to her and endeavored to rise; and as 
he put his fingers in her eyes, and tore down her hair, and made an 
enormous effort to swallow her — Mrs. Bradford in the meanwhile 
looking on with wondering admiration — Alice felt refreshed and com- 
forted, her spirit soothed and brightened by the baby’s innocence and 
antics, as the body is by a brisk walk. 

A few days after, Alice stood by the bed-side of a dying soldier be- 
longing to a Florida regiment. She wiped the death-dew from the 
pallid brow, moistened the parched lips with fresh cool water, and 
thought of the mother or wife who should have done these things. 
As she stood watching for the change which she knew was fast com- 
ing, the sick man opened his eyes. “What is it?” she asked, meet- 
ing their longing look. “ I want to go home,” was the reply. “ Where 
is your home?” asked Alice, taken by surprise and scarcely knowing 
what to say. “ In New Hampshire,” he answered, and the eyes closed 
again and the breath came longer, and at longer intervals, and in a 
few minutes he had gone home. Dying in a Confederate hospital, in 
arms against the Federal cause, and in his last moments dreaming — 
not of the fair land of flowers which he gave his life to defend, but 
of the White Mountains of the “Granite State,” in view of which 
he played in boyhood. 

Alice’s gentle hand closed the eyes fixed in death, smoothed back 
the tangled rings of hair from the fair forehead, and then calling a 
nurse, she walked hastily away. “ This constant tragedy, how shall 


76 


THE HOSPITALS OF THE COHFEDEEACY. 


I bear it?” thought she; “now, indeed, I feel that this is civil war.” 
As she was leaving the hospital the chaplain issued from the opposite 
ward. 

“The very person I wanted to see ! ” he exclaimed. “Miss Alice, 
there is a nice little fellow here who is frost-bitten. You ladies must 
get him some shoes — come with me,” and taking Alice with him, he 
re-entered the ward and proceeded to a stove where sat a nice little 
fellow indeed, evidently a gentleman, who arose as they approached. 
He was neatly dressed, excepting his feet; his shoes were old and 
ragged. Mr. Carter introduced him to Alice as Charlie Dimmock, 
of South Carolina,” and leaving her with him continued his rounds 
of the hospitals. 

Alice sat down among the pale, thin-looking men gathered around 
the stove, and entered into conversation with the youth. . She soon 
learned that his father and mother were both dead, the latter having 
died recently; that he had sisters and brothers living, all of his 
brothers being in the service. Alice was touched by the boy’s gentle 
manner and simple, frank address. “How old are you?” she asked. 
“ Eighteen, day after to-morrow,” he replied. “ I will send you some 
shoes this afternoon,” said Alice. “You must remember that the 
Empress Josephine was once as badly off as you are, ahd without as 
good a reason. And I want you to dine with me on your birth-day, 
and I will introduce you to my brother and sister — won’t you?” 
Young Dimmock, evidently gratified, promised to do so, and giving 
him her address, Alice bade him good-morning. 

The shoes were purchased and sent the same day and two days 
after, at the appointed time, the young man appeared at Colonel 
Bradford’s door. Mrs. Bradford had provided a sumptuous dinner, 
and Alice had selected the choicest fiowers from the green-house for 
the table — “ to remind him of his southern home, and of the mother 
who once did these things for him,” she thought. Colonel Bradford, 
his wife, and Alice were all much pleased with the young man’s un- 
affected, gentlemanly demeanor; his enthusiasm for the Southern 
cause, and his evident appreciation of kindness. They lingered some 
time at the table, and afterwards in the parlor, enjoying his frank, 
ingenuous conversation. Charlie was brought in, and showed evi- 
dent signs of admiration for the guest’s buttons, which were brightly 
furbished for the occasion. On parting, the Colonel pressed him to 
visit them often, but he replied that he feared he would not be able 
to do so; that his feet were much better, and with his new shoes he 


THE HOSPITALS OF THE OONFEDERACT. 


77 


felt quite able for service. Alice asked him to wait u, moment, and 
running up to her room, took a beautiful little Testament from a 
number of various kinds, which she kept for soldiers, and writing a 
few words of kindly interest in it, carried it to him. He accepted it 
quietly, but with emotion; and thanking the family for their kind- 
ness, bade them farewell. 

A few weeks passed, and in the throng of other duties the boy- 
soldier would scarcely have been remembered but for the following 
letter which came to Alice from one of his sisters, — handed her whilst 
on her way with Mrs. Parker to the hospitals: 

Columbia, S. C., April 10, 1863. 

My dear Miss Bradford : 

Unknown and yet well-known, not by the whispers of fashionable 
on dit^ nor by the bold compliment of an editor’s pen, but from the 
grateful effusions dictated by the heart of my little brother who 
writes that alone and among strangers he found a friend in need, who 
lovingly ministered to his comfort. 

“ The rif,ht8 of women 1 What are they ? 

The right to labor— watch — and pray ; 

The right to dry the falling tear, 

The right a lonely heait to cheer, 

The right to emooth the brow of care, 

And whisper comfort 'mid despair.” 

These rights, my kind friend, you have claimed; and thank God, 
you have exercised them towards the well-beloved and youngest of 
our household. May our mother — whom we laid in God’s garden 
three months since — look down from her home of rest and breathe 
an angel’s blessing on the gentle woman so ready to do good to the 
orphan soldier-boy. It may never be my privilege to meet you, but 
I trust that you may, if necessitated, ever find a mend to mete to you 
just returns for the full measure you have dispensed to the little one 
of our fold. If ever in our vicinity let us render you verbally our 
sincere thanks; and among our circle of friends it shall be a pleasure 
to mention your name in connection with the acts which awaken our 
liveliest gratitude. A remnant of our family are here as refugees, 
and deprived of our previous comforts we are happy to ensure the 
presence or safety of our dear brothers. They are now all in the 
Army of Northern Virginia, and I hope will live to fight in defence 
of your home and State. Grandfather and sisters all are ready to ask 
God’s blessing on our kind friend. Words are leaves, but you have 
given us the fruit — deeds of sympathy. May you suffer lightly. in 
these days of war and weeping, and beyond each threatening provi- 
dence may God reveal to you a hidden blessing. Heaven help you ! 

“improve the influ* nee God has given. 

Life’s duty done — thy rest in heaven.” 

With reiterated assurances of regard. 

Yours, most truly, 

Miss M. A. Dimmock. 


78 


LOUIS ALEMBEBT. 


“ A perfect gem!” said Mrs. Parker, as Alice finished reading the 
letter aloud. “Alice, this is your reward.” 

I 


CHAPTER VII. 

LOUIS ALEMBERT. 

“Miss Bradford,” exclaimed a voice as Alice walked hastily through 
a crowded ward towards a spot where lay the greatest sufferer in the 
hospital. She turned and encountered the dark eyes of a youth lying 
on a bed, whom she had frequently observed in passing, but with 
whom she had never had any conversation. 

“I have been thinking,” he continued, “if I may not be worse off 
than the men to whom you are ministering.” 

“Certainly not,” said Alice smiling, but with a little surprise; 
“ neither the Doctor nor the ward-master has mentioned your case to 
me as one especially needing care.” 

“ Because the Doctor and the ward-master neither know anything 
of my case,” he replied. “ I have watched you for some days, having 
nothing else to do, and I see that you do not minister only to the 
bodies but to the souls of men. I think my case would interest you 
if you had a correct diagnosis of it,” he said, half-carelessly, but fix- 
ing his eyes earnestly on her face. 

“You must give it to me yourself then,” said Alice, whose quick 
instinct saw the feeling that lay beneath the young man’s careless 
exterior. 

“Very well, I will do so,” he replied; “my story is a brief one. 
My name is Louis Alembert. My father was a Frenchman; my 
mother a native of Louisiana — an only child. My father died when 
I was quite a boy; my mother just before the opening of the war. 
My mother was devoted to me, but allowed me to have my own way 
too much. Since her death my regiment has been my home. My 
habits were none too good during my mother’s life, and they have 
grown worse since her death — you see I am giving you a correct di- 
agnosis — especially I drink too much, and am in a fair way of going 
to the dogs generally; and I don’t think any one would care if I did. 


LOUIS ALEMBERT. 


79 


I have been thinking over these things since I have been lying here, 
and watching you, and looking over the papers you brought, and 
hearing what the men say of you, and I concluded if there was any 
one who would care whether I threw myself away or not, it would be 
you. Am I right?” 

“ Certainly, I do care,” said Alice, “ and as an orphan soldier-boy 
and a stranger I feel that your case is one of special interest. But 
why do you do these things,” she continued, gravely but gently, 
“when you are conscious that they are wrong? A man — the noblest 
of beings — must learn to take care of himself; to do what is right 
because it is right, and not depend on others to guide and uphold 
him. Don’t you think so?” 

“Certainly, but that is easier said than done,” replied Alembert. 
“ It is working against the stream to overcome the habits of years. 
Are you willing to help me ? ” 

“ I am,” replied Alice, whose heart was touched by the evident earn- 
estness and frankness of the youth — “ but these sick men are expect- 
ing me; here is my card — come to my home to-morrow afternoon, if 
you are well enough. I would like to introduce you to my brother 
and sister — and then your education shall begin,” she said with a 
smile, extending her hand to him. 

Alembert pressed it warmly, while a flush of grateful feeling passed 
over his handsome, expressive face. 

Alice related the conversation which had taken place between young 
Alembert and herself to her brother and sister that night. Mrs. 
Bradford was rather shocked at the young man’s rough address. 

“The idea of telling you that he had bad habits!” she said. “But 
then he is a soldier, and an orphan, poor boy,” glancing at Charlie; 
“of course you must bring him here, Alice.” 

Colonel Bradford was more doubtful. “It is either entire simplic- 
ity, or a finished piece of acting,” he said. 

“If you had seen him you would have no doubt,” said Alice, warmly. 

“Very well,” replied the Colonel, “we shall see. What did you 

say was his regiment? The Louisiana? I knew the Colonel of 

that regiment in the army; he is now a Brigadier, and if you show 
any disposition to take charge of the young man for life, Alice, I can 
write to him and make enquiries.” 

“No fear of that,” said Alice, smiling, “he is too young — a mere 
boy. He don’t look more than nineteen, though something in his 
manner would make me suppose him older.” 


80 


LOUIS ALEMBERT. 


Early the next morning as Alice, accompanied by Colonel Brad- 
ford, walked down the street on her way to the hospitals, they met a 
gentleman in the uniform of a Brigadier-General. 

“The very man I wished to see!” exclaimed Colonel Bradford, 
grasping the officer’s hand. “Alice, this is the gentleman of whom 
I spoke last night — your young friend’s Colonel. Let me congratu- 
late you on your promotion, General;” and then introducing his 
sister to General Waddell, Colonel Bradford related in a few, brief 
words Alice’s interview with young Alembert. 

“Entirely genuine,” responded the General at its conclusion; “I 
would have told you so without hearing the story if you had given 
me the name. I have known Alembert from a boy, and though he 
has many faults — those of which he told you — he carries his frank- 
ness and openness to excess. You may trust him, Miss Bradford, and 
you will be doing a good work if you rescue him from the vices to 
which he is prone.” 

Leaving her brother in conversation with his comrade-in-arms, 
Alice passed on, musing on the coincidence that gave the desired in- 
formation concerning young Alembert just as it was wanted. “How 
interesting is life,” she thought, and then some words from “ The 
Caxtons” came into her mind: “Who amongst us may not be per- 
mitted by God to have sway over the action and orbit of the human 
soul?” And resolving to do all in her power to bring this “wander- 
ing comet into the harmonies of heaven,” she passed on to the work 
of the hour. 

The evening brought with it young Alembert. He looked pale and 
thin, and was evidently far from well. “I met General Waddell to- 
day,” said Colonel Bradford after the usual greetings had passed, 
“and invited him to spend the evening with you, but hv was in haste 
to get back to his command, although his furlough has not quite ex- 
pired.” 

“Just like him,” said Alembert, “he is in greater haste than I 
>vould be. This is something that I cannot understand — a man with 
a family to whom he is devoted, and yet he hurries back to his com- 
mand— probably to disease and death — before his furlough is out.” 

“ But he thinks he is needed there,” said Colonel Bradford a little 
gravely. 

“I would think that ] was needed at home,” rejoined Alembert, 
“or at least that / needed my family’s love and companionship as long 
as I could have them. It may be owing to my practical French na- 


LOUIS ALEMBERT. 


81 


ture, Colonel, but I have little perception of devotion to an Ideal. I 
would have died for my mother, or for any one else whom I love” — 
and his eye turned slightly towards Alice — “ but for ‘ country,’ unless 
embodied in some one to whom I am personally attached, I care little.” 

“You should put Yankee prisoners on the list of your personal at- 
tachments,” said the Colonel, laughing. “General Waddell told me 
this morning, Alice, of a difficulty which Mr. Alembert got into about 
a Yankee prisoner, which lost him a pretty good berth. Mr. Alem- 
bert in some such mood, I suppose, as he seems to be now, accepted 
the appointment of hospital steward. There was detailed in his hos- 
pital an intelligent prisoner who did good service as clerk. As it was 
afterwards ascertained, Mr. Alembert dressed him in the Confederate 
gray and allowed him to go to church; supplied him with clothing 
and tobacco out of his own pocket, and finally had such a blow-up 
with the officer in command of the prisoners on account of some real 
or fancied indignity placed on his favorite that he was ordered back 
to his regiment — to be rewarded by Yankee bullets for befriending a 
Yankee prisoner.” 

“Yes, poor Thurston,” said Alembert warmly, “he was treated un- 
justly, so I thought at the time, though, to speak the truth, I was 
scarcely in a condition to judge. But he was a noble fellow, and I 
trusted him fully and gladly — lost my place in his defence. Mock- 
heroics, spent on a Yankee, do you think. Miss Bradford?” 

“No,” said Alice, “I admire your conduct in regard to your Yan- 
kee friend; but Mr. Alembert, you do yourself injustice — this was 
devotion to the Ideal. You thought your prisoner unjustly treated." 

“No,” interrupted Alembert, “it was not that. I might have stood 
by and seen others more unjustly treated and thought that the Yan- 
kees deserved it, and that it was none of my business. But I liked 
Thurston and would have done battle for him personally — as for my 
mother, or for you. Miss Bradford.” 

“Thank you,” said Alice laughing, “your mother’s name redeems 
the list, or I might not consider it a compliment.” 

Colonel Bradford left the room, according to custom if his wife re- 
mained long out, and Alice and Alembert were left alone. 

“I would like for my education to begin, as it has been sadly neg- 
lected,” said Alembert, rising and taking a seat beside Alice; “Miss, 
Bradford, what is the first lesson ? ” 

“ These are the text-books,” said Alice, rising and taking a small 
uniform edition of the Bible and prayer-book, which she had been 


82 


LOUIS ALEMBERT. 


saving for some special occasion, from the mantel. “ I have placed 
the mark at Proverbs,” she said, opening the Bible; “it begins with 
a promise to give ‘ to the young man knowledge and discretion ’ — you 
will find it a mine of wisdom. In the prayer-book I have taken the 
liberty to mark some prayers which I think peculiarly suited to you. 
Will you read them?” 

“Yes, if you desire it,” said Alembert. 

“ Certainly, I do desire it,” replied Alice. “ There is no other way 
by which you can gain man’s noblest attribute — self-control — except 
through the Word and Spirit of God. This will do for the present,” 
she continued, smiling as Colonel Bradford re-entered the room with 
Charlie in his arms, followed by Mrs. Bradford. 

The introduction to Mrs. Bradford took place. She was at once 
impressed by the handsome face and easy address of the young man, 
though he said half-humorously that he did not like children, and 
evidently treated Charlie’s infantile acquirements with some noncha- 
lance. “The worse for him, if he really does not love children,” 
thought the young mother; and indeed Charlie’s appearance might 
have softened a heart far older and more cynical than Alembert’s. 
Fresh from a bath, and dressed ill a robe of long, flowing white, with 
neck and arms bare; soft, brown curling hair and earnest dark-gray 
eyes; dimpled chin and rose-bud mouth,— Charlie looked, for the 
time, as if he belonged to an unfallen race of beings. 

When Mr. Alembert rose to leave Colonel Bradford insisted on his 
remaining all night, and until the time came for his return to the 
field. He excused himself for the night, but promised if leave could 
be obtained from Doctor Pringle that he would return the next day 
and remain till he was ordered to his regiment. “ Never passed such 
an evening in my life,” thought the young man as he left the door; 
“this is an Elysium on earth.” 

The next morning brought young Alembert, and a day or two found 
him completely domesticated at Colonel Bradford’s — talking over 
camp-life with the Colonel and aiding him with ready pen in any 
emergency; ever ready to do little services for Mrs. Bradford, and 
quite won by Charlie, whom he considered the most remarkable baby 
he had ever seen — having never noticed any other — and above all, de- 
voted to Alice. He walked with her every day to the hospitals and 
lingered in the neighborhood till her return to accompany her back, 
and was scarcely ever away from her side unless for some imperative 
call. There was little of the higher intellectual sympathy between 


LOUIS ALEMBEKT. 


83 


them. Alembert cared nothing for books; he never read unless some 
fine passage to which Alice called his attention. “I had so much 
rather hear you talk than read, Miss Alice,” he would say. Alice 
felt a warm and growing interest in the generous, warm-hearted, neg- 
lected boy who seemed to have thrown himself on her for guidance 
and help. 

“You seem almost to come in Charlie’s place,” said Alice to Louis 
one day as he took her basket to accompany her to the hospital; “if 
you wish it I will call you Louis, and look upon you as a dear younger 
brother.” 

“ Thank you. Miss Alice,” said Louis, a deep flush mounting to his 
brow, “ it will be indeed an honor to have you regard me as a brother.” 

“ If you answer so formally I shall think you are afraid I will dom- 
ineer over you,” said Alice smiling; “if I am the oldest, you are the 
strongest, so don’t fear.” 

“I don’t fear anything where you are concerned,” said Louis, “my 
trust in you is perfect.” 

“ I want to be worthy of your confidence,” said Alice, “ but do not 
have too exalted an opinion of me. There is but One worthy of all 
trust.” 

“If ever I reach God it will be through you,” said Alembert. “I 
could scarcely conceive it possible, and I could not bear for you to do 
wrong.” The tone of his voice went to Alice’s heart. 

“ God keep me from doing wrong,” she said; “but Louis, forgive 
me if I ask you, why should you think more of my doing right than 
of doing right yourself? Surely — ” 

“I know — I know,” interrupted Alembert; “but I have never seen 
it in myself; I do not expect it of myself — but you, 0 you — ” 

“ I must stop you now,” said Alice laughing, “ and here we are at 
the hospital, Louis, let us both do, a^ one of my little Sunday-school 
scholars used to say, ‘the best we can.’ Au revoir,'' and kissing her 
hand to him, Alice disappeared within the hospital. 

Under Colonel Bradford’s delightful roof young Alembert improved 
rapidly, and was soon pronounced by his surgeon fit for service. In 
the meantime Alice and Mrs. Bradford busied themselves in putting 
his clothes in order, and in supplying him with the dainty little com- 
forts often prepared for the most common soldier by the ladies of the 
South. His needle and thread case and tobacco-bag were models of 
taste. The afternoon before the day appointed for Alembert to leave 
he went out to make his final preparations, while Mrs. Bradford and 


84 


IXHJIB ALEMBERT. 


AHce placed the finishing touches on his soldier’s wardrobe. “Alice,” 
said Mrs. Bradford, as busy fingers passed rapidly from buttons to 
rents and darns, “are you going to correspond with Louis?” 

“Certainly,” said Alice; “I have told him that I will look upon 
him as a younger brother — as near as possible in Charlie’s place — and 
a correspondence will follow of course.” 

“You have less coquetry than any one I ever saw,” said Mrs. Brad- 
ford, “ but has the thought never occurred to you that Louis loved 
you more than a brother ? ” 

“It has occurred to me,” said Alice, an expression of doubt and 
pain flitting over her face, “and then I would think I was mistaken 
and be ready to laugh at my folly. Do you think so?” she asked, in 
a tone of anxious inquiry. 

“ I do,” replied Mrs, Bradford, “ and every one else, I suppose, ex- 
cept yourself at this instant Charlie’s voice was heard in unmistak- 
able protest against something; and with an ejaculation against 
nurses in general, and this one in particular, Mrs. Bradford hastened 
from the room. 

Left alone, Alice dropped the work from her hand and sat in silent 
thought. Supposing what her sister said was true, and her own in- 
stinct confirmed it. what was to be done? To teach him how he 
ought to feel towards her — to tell him, perhaps, or write him of her 
own tacit betrothal — to treat him even more like a younger brother 
than she had done — to throw him as much as possible with girls 
younger than himself, — Alice felt herself growing old as she thought 
of the best means of controlling and directing this young man. 
“There may be trouble first,” she thought, “but God helping me, I 
shall be successful. I must consider his good only, and not think of 
myself,” — for a feeling arose in her heart against systematically put- 
ting this devoted love from her, — and gathering up her work she went 
energetically through it. 

In the evening Louis looked pale and depressed ; the sweet, sunny 
smile had fled from the boy’s mouth, and his bright, dark eyes were 
heavy and dull. 

“ I don’t think,” he said to Alice in a low voice, as they sat on a 
sofa together, “that friends should ever part.” 

“ That must be for a better world than this, dear Louis,” said Alice 
audibly in a clear, calm voice. “ Brother,” she continued, turning 
her eyes fully on his face and laying her hand lightly on his, “I know 
what you need — as much as a weary child does his mother’s knee— 


LOUIS ALEMBERT. 


85 


you need to throw your soul on God. Louis, if you have never prayed 
before, promise me that you will do so this night, and your sister’s 
heart will be lightened and comforted.” 

“ I will — I will — my sweet sister,” said the boy lifting her hand to 
his lips, inexpressibly soothed by the charm of her voice and manner. 

He who led me to you must love and care for me.” 

“ What amusing letters "you will write me of camp-life,” said Alice, 
“and what perilous adventures and deeds of valor you will record; 
and in return, what shall I write you?” 

“Anything,” answered Louis, “ anything from you will be interest- 
ing. What a novelty and pleasure it will be to me to get letters. 
Miss Alice. I have never received one since I have been in camp, 
except from Thurston, the Yankee prisoner, you know, after he was 
exchanged, asking me what he could do for me — to which I never re- 
plied.” 

“ Yes, and but for going to camp you would not know what inter- 
esting letters I write,” said Alice, cheerfully. “There is good in 
everything, Louis; '<dl the w(tys of the Lord are mercy and truth to 
them that keep His covenant and His testimonies.’ Do this, Louis, 
and all is well. May I, before long, greet you in that best of bonds — 
the brotherhood of Christ?” she said softly. 

“ By God’s help, I hope you may,” said the young man, devoutly 
bending over her hand, and lifting a face wonderfully cleared by the 
sweet affection and new hope that had dawned upon him. “I never 
had a sister, and it is sweet to me to have you for one. Miss Alice; 
and if I was a Christian I think that I would be happy.” 

“Yes, a happiness that you never knew before,” said Alice, “but 
Louis, you niu.st not expect too much in this life. I was so struck by 
a thought 1 saw the other day in Madame de Stael’s ‘Germany:’ ‘The 
destination of man in this life is not happiness, but an advancement 
towards moral })erfection.’ It seemed to me so true— one of those 
rays that shed such a light over the darkness of life. Even with our 
sinful nature, we are too noble, brother, too capable of becoming 
great and good, for God to leave us without the trials and temptations 
that purify and strengthen— if overcome.” And thus Louis went to 
his regiment. 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FEDERAL SICK. 

The spring and summer of the memorable year, 1863, passed rap- 
idly away. General Lee’s right arm had fallen; the death of Stone- 
wall Jackson had pierced the heart of the South. 

“We may have trusted in him too much,” said Mrs. Parker, to 
whom Alice went for comfort. “God is teaching us to rely on Him- 
self alone.” 

“They are gathering above, the Christian martyrs of the South,” 
wrote Alice to Louis. “ It is ours to bear the burden and the heat a 
little while longer. Let us give thanks and press bravely on, dear 
Louis.” Colonel Bradford thought the death of Jackson one of the 
greatest calamities that could have befallen the South, but his faith 
in the ultimate success of the Southern cause was not for a moment 
shaken. 

During the summer Alice was untiringly engaged in visiting the 
hospitals, in corresponding with the soldiers, and in acting as secre- 
tary to the soldiers’ aid society. Colonel Vaughan did not write very 
frequently, but always immediately after an engagement. Alice 
heard his efficiency in camp, and coolness, steadiness and bravery in 
the field spoken of in the highest terms. But she would not have 
been a woman if she had not felt the contrast between his letters and 
Louis’s; Albert’s calm, clear, concise — the lover seemingly merged in 
the soldier — while Louis’s, though he breathed no word of a subject 
that he felt to be forbidden, were but a photograph of a mind and 
heart on which Alice was written. As she turned from Colonel 
Vaughan’s cold missives and read these devoted letters, in which she 
could hear the beating of the boy’s heart and see the glance of his 
worshipping eyes, Alice felt oppressed. Even with Colonel Vaughan 
out of the question, Alice knew that she could not, with her own ap- 
proval, look on Louis as a lover. Not only was he several years 
younger than herself — something which no woman likes in a lover or 
husband — but he was altogether unsuited to her in mind ; in heart she 
felt that his devotion was unparalleled. But notwithstanding the ob- 
ligation under which she felt to Colonel Vaughan, and her sense of 
the entire unsuitableness of her marrying Louis, Alice’s susceptible 
heart and imagination were touched by his devotion, and she felt there 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


87 


was danger. “I must love Louis,” she thought, “and how shall I love 
him?” And then came into her mind the thought oi directing the 
affections^ which to some natures — more or less to all — ^is so essential 
in life. A heart in which love is the strongest passion, as in Alice’s, 
must love every one to whom it is turned ; and to direct this love into 
right and safe channels — channels which Grod may look on and man 
approve — is no small part of the discipline of life. 

“As a dear younger brother?” mused Alice. “No, that will not 
do — there is an element in my love for Louis different from that. 
As a mother? I believe it is more like that than anything else, but 
I am too young for that — how Louis would ridicule it! As a Chris-: 
tian? 0, that is it! To yearn to bring him to Christ that our souls 
may be forever united in Him.” “But,” arose a thought, “you do 
not love every one so; old Mickey Jones, who went to the poor-house 
the other day, needs your Christian love more than Louis Alembert, — 
do you love her so?” “Our Saviour loved some persons more than 
others,” replied Alice to the thought, “there is no harm in that. By 
God’s help, I will love all in Him.” And with one longing look to 
the world of free, perfect love, she went on her way thankful that 
she had found how she might love Louis with safety. 

But the summer and autumn of 1863, with their defeats and tri- 
umphs, their sufferings and joys, and unseen battle-fields in myriads 
of human breasts, have passed away, and winter ushers in a new era 
in Alice’s life; something entirely unforeseen, as many of the most 
important things in life fire. 

Orders were received in to send the Confederate sick to Rich- 

mond, and vacate the hospitals for the sick among the Federal pris- 
oners, a large number of whom were to be sent to , as it was 

remote from the scene of action. The question immediately occurred 
to Alice, “Ought T to visit the Federal sick? I am willing to face 
disease and death — to die, if God calls me to it — for my own people 
and country; but for them — my enemies — his enemies — Louis’s ene- 
mies — Charlie’s murderers — Oh! I did not expect to do this.” And 
then came the words, “ Hereby perceive we the love of God because 
he laid down his life for us.” “And for whom did He lay down His 
life — for His friends? No, for His enemies. And wiis she not called 
to follow His steps? Did not the providence of God call her to this 
very thing? “God helping me, I will do it,” thought Alice; “where 
He gave His life I will risk mine. I have ministered to our own 
soldiers for the sake of friends and country, and now will I minister 


88 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


to enemies for Christ’s sake.” She knew that it would avail nothing 
for her to speak to Mrs. Bradford on the subject — that she would only 
regard such a course as outre and shocking; but to her brother- — her 
noble, manly, generous brother — she could appeal, and to him she 
went. He looked at her in much surprise; “I think you are right in 
theory, Alice, but very few persons put such theory in practice. Do 
as you please, m}^ dear child, but you must get some one to go with 
you. It is certainly a lamentable thing that the Federal authorities 
will not agree to the exchange of prisoners.” 

Mrs. Parker was the only lady whom Alice knew that she, thought 
would visit the sick prisoners with her. To her then she went, and 
retraced the steps by which she had been brought to such a conclu- 
sion. Mrs. Parker listened attentively and drew her to her and kissed 
her when she finished. 

‘‘You are right, iiiy child,” said she, “though I confess that 1 had 
not thought of it before. Your quick imagination gives you the ad- 
vantage of slower minds. God’s providence is in this ; I will gD. with 
you.” 

“You decide so quickly,” said Alice, looking at her with surprise, 
“you don’t seem to have any struggle with yourself as 1 had.” 

“I have passed that,” said Mrs. Parker; “God’s will is my will. I 
wish to do all things to please Him, because — ” her calm face light- 
ing and her hand clasping Alice’s with a closer grasp, “I loee Him so.” 

Among their friends and acquaintances some thought with Mrs. 
Bradford that it was “shocking” to visit the sick prisoners. “I am 
glad that I have not sunk so low,” said one. “You are mistaken — 
you have not risen so high,” said Mr. Carter, with one of his genial 
smiles. Others — ladies — would not dare to venture among such crea- 
tures — they would certainly be insulted. But Mrs. Parker and Alice 
did not fear this; they knew the refining influence of sickness and 
suffering over men, and that men, more than women, instinctively 
know a pure woman; and they believed that they would have the 
same influence over these suffering enemies that they had over the 
common soldiers among their own countrymen. And so Alice and 
Mrs. Parker — as women are apt to do in most things they are really 
interested in — carried the day, and went to the prisoners’ hospital. 

That first scene! Never in all her life did it fade from Alice’s mem- 
ory. As they approached the ward, they noticed that the windows 
were nearly all down. “How difficult it is to get people— even 
physicians — to appreciate the priceless blessing of pure air,” said 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


89 


Mrs. Parker. “ Don’t you remember reading — or if you do not I do — 
in the Crimean war, how Florence Nightingale would go around the 
hospitals after the surgeons and order the windows to be thrown up? ” 

At the door a fearful stench met them, which almost drove them 
back; but they persevered and entered the room. Alice had never 
visited the hospitals till the war was two years old, and being re- 

mote from the scene of action, they had never presented the appear- 
ance common to those earlier in the war and nearer the battle-fields. 
Consequently she had never witnessed such a scene as was now before 
her. The beds were every one filled, and with such looking men! 
Just from prison and suffering from fever and pneumonia, they looked 
yellow and black. At one end of the long ward two men were sweep- 
ing; at the other, two were scouring — dust and damp mingling with 
the miasma of the room. 

“Raise the windows!” said Mrs. Parker. The men stopped their 
work and looked up in surprise. Many eyes were turned in the di- 
rection from whence the voice proceeded, for “/iere was dearth of 
woman’s nursing, and lack of woman’s tears.” 

“Raise every window!” again repeated Mrs. Parker, and she and 
Alice stepping hastily to the other side of the room commenced the 
work, and assisted by the nurses, soon the fresh, pure air was circling 
through the room, and driving the death-stench before it. 

“Wipe the floor perfectly dry,” said Mrs. Parker to the men who 
were scouring, and Alice, flitting to the other end of the ward where 
the men were sweeping, directed them to dampen their brooms to 
absorb the dust. She then commenced going to each bed down the 
long line on one side of the room, while Mrs. Parker took the other 
side. On the first bed in the corner to which Alice went lay a re- 
fined-looking man, with quiet, unmoved countenance, evidently dying. 

“How are you?” said Alice gently. 

“Little liope left for this world,” replied he. 

“You have hope then of a better?” said Alice. 

“ Yes,” he replied, and continued; “ my home is at Saratoga Springs; 
I have a shier now in the South looking lor me. Will you write to 
at Saratoga, telling her where I am ? ” 

“Certainly,” replied Alice. “You may depend on me,” she added, 
meeting his enquiring look. The man smiled, closed his eyes, and 
Alice passed on. 

The next patient was a man with rheumatism, unable to move a 
muscle of his body below the neck; but he was bright and cheerful, 


90 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


talking merrily, as if determined to use almost the only organ left 
him— his tongue. The next was a youth, fragile and delicate, with 
one eye gone; his whole appearance altogether so pitiable that Alice 
wept as she bent over him, utterly forgetting that he was an enemy. 

“ I am a Western man,” said an intelligent-looking man as Alice 
approached his bed, “ and do not believe in abolition. 1 entered the 
war to defend the Grovernment.” 

We will not discuss politics now,” said Alice gravely. “Is there 
anything that I can do for you? ” 

‘•Can you give me some milk?” said the man eagerly; “it would 
do me more good than anything in the world.” 

“I will bring you some to-morrow morning,” replied Alice and 
passed on. 

In the farthest corner, raised in almost a sitting posture and sup- 
ported by the wall, was a man of fine face, quiet as all — Confederates 
and Federals — generally were. He was black in the face from vio- 
lent pneumonia; on his brow stood the large drops, but there was no 
expression of pain in the face, and not a sound escaped his lips. “ I 
would wipe the drops from his forehead,” thought Alice, “ but he is 
suffering so much he don’t know they are there.” 

“Take the corner of the sheet and wipe my forehead,” said the sick 
man, as if in answer to her thought. 

Alice drew her handkerchief from her pocket — the sick man shook 
his head — but she wiped it as tenderly as a mother, and laid the hand- 
kerchief by his side. The dying man lifted his eyes gratefully to 
hers, and ever afterwards this man was associated in Alice’s mind with 
the old legend of St. Veronica and the Christ of the Handkerchief. 

Mrs. Parker now approached Alice, holding her watch in her hand. 
“My dear,” said she, “we must go now. We cannot do much to-day, 
but I have been giving directions to the nurses, and we have at least 
secured fresh air for these poor creatures.” 

“Yes,” interrupted the man who lay on the nearest bed, “it is what 
I wanted most in prison — fresh air, and to see ladies sometimes.” 

“Didn’t you have fresh air in the prisons?” asked Mrs. Parker. 

“We did well enough at first, ma’m,” he replied, “but the men on 
the lower floor got to taking up the plank and digging their way out, 
so we all had to be crowded on the upper floors, and then it was bad.” 

“Very well, I hope you will be kindly treated here,” said Mrs. Par- 
ker, “ as well as it is in the power of our Government to treat ; you. 
The orders are that you shall be treated just as our own men, and if 


THE FEDEBAL SICK. 91 

you don’t get such things as the sick ought to have it is because we 
haven’t got them.” 

“Yes ma’m, I know that,” he replied; “our men wouldn’t fight for 
such things as your men get.” 

“ Because they are fighting from different motives,” said Mrs. Par- 
ker, gravely; “but come, Alice, it is time for us to go. We will come 
back to-morrow and bring you some things that can’t be provided here.” 

That afternoon Alice received a note from Mrs. Parker, saying that 
she had just received a telegram from the Colonel of her son’s regi- 
ment, saying that her son was ill in camp and that she would leave 
on the evening train for his destination, and asking her to call by her 
house the next morning and get some delicacies she had prepared for 
the Federal sick. “ God speed you in your Christian work, my child,” 
she concluded. 

“Who will go with you to the hospitals now, Alice,” said her 
brother, as she finished reading the note. 

“ The matrons of the hospitals are all ladies — rrefugees — you know, 
brother,” said Alice, “they will go with me, or Doctor Pringle, or 
Mr. Carter.” 

“Very well,” said her brother, resuming his newspaper. 

When Alice returned to the hospital the next morning, the beds of 
the two men in whom she had felt most interest — the one for whom 
she had promised to write the letter, and the one of the handkerchief, 
were both vacant; it need-ed not to ask whither they had gone. The 
man who had asked for the milk received it most gratefully, and said 
that he believed it saved his life. 

“Saved his life to slay my countrymen,” thought Alice, “even per- 
haps Albert or Louis.” She endeavored to put the thought from her 
mind, but meeting Mr. Carter she mentioned it to him. 

“We have nothing to do with that,” he said, “the duty is ours — 
the result is God’s.” And from that moment Alice threw off‘ a thought 
that she felt to be unworthy, even though Louis wrote: “nursing 
Yankees to kill me. Miss Alice, or what is worse, exposing yourself 
to death in those horrid hospitals.” 

Colonel Vaughan, whose opinion she had asked in regard to the 
step she had taken, and to whom she had fully explained her motives, 
replied, “You have decided for yourself, Alice; I have nothing to say 
against it.” Cold encouragement, thought Alice, but she knew that 
it was aomethmg from him, whose slightest word was an index to his 
meaning. 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


M 

Doctor Pringle now generally attended Alice in her visits to the 
sick prisoners. She was often amused at the affected hostility and 
real kindness he manifested towards them. “The miserable wretches, 
they have no right to live,” he would say; and then, looking rather 
sheepishly at her over his spectacles, “Alice, I don’t know what to 
do with that man by the door; he has nostalgia worse than anything 
else. 1 wish you would try to cheer him up a little.” And going in 
with Mr. Carter one day, Alice found the Doctor feeding a sick man 
with his own hands as tenderly as if he had been a baby. “Since 
the wretches are here they must be treated humanely,” he said apol- 
ogetically to her afterwards. 

Day after day, during the winter and spring of ’64, Alice went as 
a ministering spirit to her suffering enemies. Mrs. Parker still lin- 
gered, having found work in another field nearer her son. As the 
sick men improved, Alice had some conversation with them. She 
wished her motives in visiting them to be understood jis those oi’ 
Christian humanity, and not through any sympathy with their cause 
or want of entire devotion to her own. And she hoped by her min- 
istrations to soften in some degree the bitterness of feeling between 
the two countries, and to encourage them in acts of huiminity and 
kindness towards each other. The sick men grew to look upon her 
as a guardian angel. Alice felt the atmosphere of revering alFection 
which surrounded her as she stood in their midst; and strange as it 
might seem, she knew that if her life were threatened, those men 
would gladly risk their own to defend her. The greater part of them 
were Western men — some from Tennessee, North-Alabama and West- 
Virginia. “I hate them worse than the real Yankees,” said Doctor 
Pringle, “they know better.” But to Alice’s imagination and heart 
they were as suffering, prodigal sons to be won back by kindness. 

One of the most interesting features of hospital-life to Alice were 
the Sunday afternoon services held by Mr. Carter in the convalescent 
wards. She had frequently attended them before the removal of the 
Confederates, and never before had she seen so many men humble and 
reverent in their deportment during religious services. In their pre- 
carious condition — life hovering between the hospital and the field — 
the sublime truths of the Christian religion came home with thrill- 
ing effect. But a new and startling element of interest was intro- 
duced with the coming of the Federal prisoners. Mr. Carter now 
held the services in the Federal convalescent ward. Every man who 
could possibly walk would go, so much had they been impressed by 


THE FEDERAL SIOK. 93 

the young chaplain’s kindness, and so great was the need felt for re- 
ligious services in those dark hours. ^ 

It was on one of these occasions that Alice, accompanied by Mrs. 
Johnson, a matron of the hospital, was present on a soft, bright, 
April day. Through the open windows was a view of the city, lying 
wrapped in Sabbath stillness at their feet; beyond was a range of 
hills surmounted by fortifications ; in the distance the Peaks of Otter 
lifted their heads to a sky without a cloud. Tears filled Alice’s eyes 
as she looked out on the fair heritage, and thought of the noble Army 
of Northern Virginia lying as a breastwork between it and the in- 
vader. But turning her eyes within, her heart swelled almost to 
bursting. A number of pale, emaciated men, with still, quiet faces 
filled the whole of the lower part of the long, narrow room. And 
now the convalescent Confederates from the guard were dropping in. 
The Federals quietly made room for them among themselves; and 
there they sat together, like a band of brothers. Near to Alice stood 
Mr. Carter — his pale, intellectual brow and earnest dark eye bright- 
ening and glowing with the feelings awakened by the scene. The 
emotion of Alice and the chaplain soon communicated itself to the 
men, and quiet tears arose to the eyes of some, while scarcely re- 
pressed sobs were heard from others — Confederates and Federals. 
And one message — the glorious liberty wherewith Christ hath made 
us free — was given to both; and Confederate and Federal bent the 
knee together, the blue and the gray mingling as one, and together 
sang the praises of one God and Father and Redeemer of all. “ That 
they all may be one ; as thou. Father, art in me, and I in thee, that 
they also may be one in us,” thought Alice, as the sweet, soothing 
tones of the benediction fell on her ear. 

The busy hum of the prisons! How it struck Alice as she passed 
them on her daily walk to the hospitals — like one vast work-shop 
they appeared. Men crowded in confined air, and yet in their cease- 
less activity, cut off from other work, converting the bones of their 
beef-rations into every possible figure and ornament. 

“What indomitable pluck the Yankees have!” said Doctor Pringle 
to Alice one day; “I saw a sick man in hospital this morning, who 
ten to one will never get home, looking at the river through his win- 
dow and planning his return here when the war is over to establish 
a poper-miU. And see this — ” drawing a small book from his pocket, 
“ one of the prisoners lent it to me. It really shows genius and 
taste, and what is even more remarkable among them — purity of 


94 


THE FEDERAL SICK. 


character. The rascal though has been converting his talent for 
drawing into forging Contt?derate notes, he says, to buy bread from 
the guard.” 

Alice took the book and glanced over it. It was a diary of prison- 
life, interspersed with sketches of figures and scenes in prison, done 
by no mean hand, all told in a light, gay, humorous spirit: “Small is 
the portion of our daily corn-dodger, and smaller far is the mete of 
meat that those do eat who like to meet the cook who does not cheat.” 
There was a most ludicrous sketch of “Old Jake and Webster,” rej)- 
resented as “Our Desponding Neighbors.” And then came, “March 
23, 18(>4: Very cold — there is a snow ten inches deep this morning; 
we had a pretty rough night for our present limited stock of bedding. 
I lay on my over-coat on the floor with part of one blanket over me — 
1 saypar^, because four of us lay under one — and though it was very 
cold I slept well and dreamed that 1 was at home, and seated {not alone) 
in a beautiful shady nook that I well remember ‘in happy days gone 
by,’ while in the distance floated strains of the most heavenly music.’’ 
Again, “All are (his trials) pro patria — with this consolation I hope 
for the best.” 

Tears filled Alice’s eyes as she closed the book. “Youth and love 
and hope, what will you not triumph over?” she thought, “and he 
too loves his country, and consoles himself that his sufferings are for 
her sake. I had not thought of that before.” 

A few days after this, as Alice sat in her room writing to Louis, a 
messenger came in haste from Mr. Carter for her to go to one of the 
hospitals. Hurriedly tying on her hat, she accompanied the messen- 
ger. Mr. Carter met her at the door. “I have been wishing for 
you,” he said; “you have missed a great. deal, but it is not too late — 
come with me,” and they walked quickly to the other end of the ward. 

*• Somebody's darling, is dyiug now.” 

On one of the low, narrow beds lay a young man; on the pale 
brow the dew of death had gathered. The lips were colorless and 
the nose pinched; but the blue eyes were clear and bright, and an 
expression ecstatic — seraphic — beamed from the sunken face. 

“How are you?” said Alice, looking wonderingly at the radiant 
face. 

“Well — well — almost well!” he exclaimed. “Joy — joy— my war- 
fare is accomplished— my work is done,”— and at intervals: “1 have 
fought a good fight — 1 have kept the faith — the crown of glory — 
forever with the Lord. I see them,”— with an ineffable smile— “the 


THE BEGIKNING OF THE END. | 95 

Shining Ones-r-come to bear me home — to Jesus. Beloved ones — 
all — tight the good fight — meet me there.” 

He ceased, an expression of awe-struck bliss gathering and intensi- 
fying on his face. Deep silence reigned around. Alice sunk on her 
knees beside the bed, gazing with reverent awe on the rapt face of the 
dying man. His eyes were closed, but the lips moved. Mr. Carter 
bent near to catch his last words. “ The Lamb in His beauty ” were 
all that he could hear. Another moment — a slight convulsion — and 
the spirit had fled, Mr.- Carter knelt down, followed by the men gath- 
ered around, and solemnly and sweetly rose on the air the words of 
the Angelic Hymn: “Therefore with angels and archangels, and with 
all the company of heaven, we laud and magnify Thy glorious name; 
evermore praising Thee, and saying, holy, holy, holy. Lord God of 
Hosts, heaven and earth are full of Thy glory: Glory be to Thee, 0 
Lord Most High. Amen.” 

“It'is meet, my friends,” said the minister rising, “to repeat only 
the words of praise and adoration — to* join the song of angels and 
archangels — in the face of such a death as that. What to him was 
prison or hospital — stranger or foe— with his soul basking in God’s 
smile and love? And to each one of you — penitent and impeni- 
tent — to him who has his glorious and blessed hope, and to him who 
has it not — he speaks now: ’Who shall separate us from the love of 
Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or 
nakedness, or peril, or sword?’” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

Throughout the summer of 1864 Alice Bradford continued her un- 
wearied work in the hospitals of friend and foe. She had hoped to 
see Colonel Vaughan this summer, but was disappointed. Just after 
the battle of Spottsylvania Court-House, in which he had distin- 
guished himself by his courage and prudence, he had been appointed 
Brigadier-General; and to a character like his increased honors only 
brought increased responsibility and labor. “ I cannot think of ask- 


96 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


ing for leave of absence now,” he wrote; “dangers thicken around 
us, the safety of our country must alone be considered.” Alice knew 
that he was right, and she submitted; but Oh! she felt that her sick 
love needed nourishment and care. 

And deep down in Alice’s heart, though with all her conscientious- 
ness and love of truth she scarce dared confess it, she felt that she 
needed some safeguard against Louis’s devotion. He came home for 
for a few days. “It would be for weeks if I had my way,” said he; 
“don’t shake your head. Miss Alice; you are home, country, all to 
me,” and the young man’s cheek flushed, and the look of unspeaka- 
ble devotion came into his eyes, and Alice touched and saddened, could 
scarcely restrain her tears. Louis was improving; he was less flip- 
pant, more manly; the discipline of an unreturned love was gradually 
moulding his character. Alice’s earnest desire was to keep him from 
a declaration of love until she could teach him how he ought to love 
her; her sweet, pure, brooding affection nearly always soothed and 
controlled him. But she feared an explosion at the last, and requested 
Mrs. Bradford to be present at their parting interview. And well it 
was that she did so, for even Mrs. Bradford’s presence scarcely re- 
strained him, and all of Alice’s tact and self-control and sweetness 
were brought into requisition to soothe and cheer him. “ This much 
of life over,” she thought, as Louis at last tore himself away; “0 
Father, to Thee I commit him — his life — his discipline — his eternal 
welfare.” 

Charlie, who has grown whilst we have been busy with more im- 
portant things (it is well that Mrs. Bradford does not hear us) into 
a wonderful boy, with full possession of his legs, varied by occasional 
tumbles (all the nurse’s fault, Mrs. Bradford says,) and the partial 
possession of his tongue, looked up from the floor where he was sit- 
ting at play, into Alice’s face and said, “Allie sorry — Yankees tumin ? ” 
the Yankees being the only conceivable cause of sorrow in the world 
that had reached Charlie’s imagination. Alice caught him up in her 
arms, looked into the sweet, innocent, unreasoning eyes, and thought, 
“Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the kingdom 
of heaven.” “I will strive to go on my way as trusting and uncon- 
cerned about the future as he is,” she thought. 

“Well, Alice,” said Doctor Pringle, meeting her one morning, 
“say your last words and give your last advice to the Yankees, for 
they all leave to be exchanged a little after sun-rise to-morrow.” 

“I had rather go and tell them good-bye to-morrow morning,” 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


97 


tliought Alice, who had now long been in the habit of visiting the 
hospitals alone, and who knew also that Doctor Pringle would be 
there. 

The bright rays of a December sun were gilding mountain and 
river and steeple as Alice stole quietly from her brother’s house and 
hastened towards the hospitals. Doctor Pringle stood on the steps. 
He shook his head as Alice approached. 

“Good-morning, Doctor; fine, healthy morning for a walk — see 
how bright my cheeks are,” said she, laughing, as she sprang up the 
steps. 

“ The little elf,” said the Doctor, watching her slight figure as it 
moved rapidly through the ward, “she can twist me round her finger; 
it is well 1 didn’t marry,” with which consolatory refiection the good 
Doctor betook himself to business. 

Grateful eyes beamed upon Alice as she passed through the ward. 
Emaciated hands were stretched forth to bid her good-bye, and trem- 
ulous tones thanked her for her ministrations. “You have saved my 
life,” said one. “ 1 hope I may live to thank you in a suitable manner 
for all your kindness,” said another. “ Won’t you have my box of 
things 1 got from home?” said a third a little timidly, and yet evi- 
dently thinking that she might need it; “I am going home now and 
I won’t want it, and there is such a splendid cheese.” Alice responded 
kindly and pleasantly to all; took some of the poor fellow’s cheese to 
spare his feelings, but told him he must take his box with him as 
there might be delay in the exchange of prisoners, and he might need 
it before he got home. 

“ Be sure and inform the friends of all who have died here, and re- 
member to show mercy to Confederate prisoners,” were her parting 
words. 

The few, scattered sick soldiers from among the guard were now all 

that were left in the hospitals of . Alice had scarcely time to 

consider how she should employ her time, before a letter reached her 
brother from General Vaughan saying that he had a few days’ fur- 
lough, and would be with them after Christmas. “ I feel quite sure 
that the next campaign will be the most arduous one of the war,” he 
wrote, “ and 1 long to see you all once more before it opens.” 

Alice’s thoughts were now turned into a new channel. For more 
than two years she had not seen Albert Vaughan. She had suffered 
sufficiently before the war in being near him, with him frequently, 
without a word of love, somewhat to appreciate the providence that 


98 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


tempered trial with mercy in separating them whilst this state of 
things continued. She knew that she could better attend to life’s 
duties, and keep her mind healthful, and her imagination and heart 
from preying on her, away from him than with him under existing 
circumstances — though sometimes, during those two years, she had 
felt tempted to exclaim that her burden was more than she could 
bear. If she permitted her thoughts to dwell on her silent lover, she 
saw that she was rendered utterly unfit for even tolerable performance 
of any duty. Her will languished, her heart suffered, her imagina- 
tion, nervous system, conscience, all became morbid, and she felt that 
she was in danger of sinking beneath this trial, and thus of dishonor- 
ing the religion which she professed to believe could sustain under 
life’s manifold sorrows. And yet, if she put all thought of him reso- 
lutely from her and thought of him only when she prayed, she saw 
that the unoccupied thought and feeling — the yearning womanly na- 
ture— was in danger of yielding to another devoted, living, speaking 
love. And Oh ! how she shrank from the bare idea of being false to 
him, — him, so true, so steadfast — could he understand her danger? 

And thus she was tossed between the Scylla and Chary bdis of pas- 
sion and temptation. But now her drooping energies, sick love, and 
faint hope, were aroused afresh by the news of General Vaughan’s 
projected visit. “ He is faithful that promised,” thought Alice as she 
lay awake that night too excited to sleep, “ He will not suffer us to 
be tempted above that we are able to bear.” Alice did not think how 
she too had striven to cling to the very thought and ideal of duty. 

And now Alice wrought out anew the work of two years before. 
“I will put myself aside,” she thought; “he shall be happy — it may 
be the iasi.” And when he came, and she caught sight of the com- 
manding figure, sparer than formerly, of the classic but now weather- 
embrowned features, and of the radiant eyes as their glance fell on 
her — all the mighty love which had some time lain dormant in her 
soul during his absence, arose in its majesty and laid her heart, mind 
and will humbly at his feet. “Conqueror here,” thought Albert 
Vaughan, as he bent above the speaking face, “conqueror here, if 
nowhere else.” And then as the thought of her father came over 
them both, Alice’s tears flowed freely and her head fell on his arm. 
Albert said nothing, but his arm slightly pressed her, and as Alice 
lifted her head, smiling her welcome through her tears, his fine eyes 
met hers, inexpressibly softened and swimming in tears. Colonel and 
Mrs. Bradford both witnessed this meeting, but neither saw anything 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


99 


in it, Stive the friendship of years between Alice and General Vaughan 
intensified by circumstances. 

And so Alice’s soul was content to sit down quietly in the great- 
ness of its love, scarcely even thinking of a return. She thought of 
Jacob and his years of waiting, “and they seemed but a few days for 
the love he had to her,” and felt that length of years would be 
nought — would disappear like a cloud before the sun in the greatness 
of her love. She trusted his love as she had not done before. All 
doubt was dissipated in the clear sunshine of her own heart — in the 
“ perfect love ” which “ casteth out fear.” 

And then the re-action from the effort to resist too great tenderness 
towards Louis added to her present peace. “Now — now — I am re- 
warded for that,” she thought. 

Albert Vaughan saw something of all this. “Woman’s love — tell 
it not in Gath — publish it not in Askelon,” thought he, as his eye 
dwelt on Alice’s face and marked the sweetness and gentleness that 
rested around the mouth, and the dove-like humility and love of the 
eyes. Yet did he not fully appreciate Alice. Exacting by nature, 
and conscious of his unwavering loyalty towards her, and of the high 
motives that withheld him from declaring his love, he looked upon 
her love only as his right. 

The evening of General Vaughan’s arrival the family were assem- 
bled in the parlor. It was a pretty picture to look upon in those 
days of “war and weeping.” Mrs. Bradford, refined and elegant, 
moving with noiseless grace about the room; Colonel Bradford, with 
his noble, chivalrous bearing; General Vaughan, in his starry Briga- 
dier’s uniform, evidently a weather-beaten hero just from the field, re- 
posing in the bosom of this little domestic Eden : and Alice, like a lily 
after a storm, lifting its head to the reviving sun and gentle breeze. 
To complete the picture, Charlie is seated on the floor busily engaged 
with his blocks in erecting fortifications. 

“ General Vaughan must not go away without hearing your speech, 
my boy,” said Mrs. Bradford; “come now, hold up your head and say 
it like a man.” 

Charlie somewhat reluctantly left the pursuits of war for those of 
peace, and with bold gesture commenced: 

‘‘ You Bkerce expect one of my age 
To ’peak in public on the 'tage. 

And if I die before I wake,”— 

when suddenly perceiving from the faces around that something was 
wrong, he rushed to his mother and hid his face in her lap. 


100 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


Warwick, the courtly dining-room servant, entered with the mail. 
“Two letters for you, Alice,” said Colonel Bradford, distributing the 
mail around. 

“Such an original production,” said Alice, laughing as she finished 
one of her letters; “from a soldier — would you like to hear it? I 
will give it to you verbatim et literatim ^' — and the party assenting, 
Alice read: 

Dec. 29, 1864, Richmond Va. 

Chimborazo hospital. 

Dear Miss Bradford — I am alone to my Self an is thinking A bout 
You. I could not keep from writing to you. As you would approach 
The sixth Ward an come to see an comfort the sick. So 1 never shall 
Forget the eavening which we bid fair well to Each other an if we 
Should not meet Again in this world hope to meet in a Better world. 
That word, when I got On the cars I thought of it and I studied over 
It, then I thought of you when You did come in the morning an in 
The Cool of Eavening to see us An to do any thing for them that w^as 
In your power, an to speak words to them an to tell them Something 
About There Soul an there Condition, but I shall always think of 
What kindness You showed towards me while I was in the horspital 
There. I arrived safe in Richmond an is satisfied with my Exchange. 
I can see more pleasure Here. I met up with some of my Acquaint- 
Ance. they were verry glad to see me indeed so I am going into 
Privators in A few Days. I have Know news to send you of no im- 
portance no more than you know. You must not think hard of me 
For writing to you. So I will bring My letter to a close as it is 
Written so bad. So I hope this will find you Enjoying the host of 
Health As I am not in as good health as when I Left there. So you 
Must excuse all mistakes so I will Close by Givin you my love which 
Is PROFOUNDLY. I shall remain your sincere friend untill Death. 

Marion V. Cheshire. 

“Just to think,” said Alice, when the laugh raised by the conclud- 
ing words of the letter had subsided, “what this man might have 
been if he had been educated. What glimpses of imagination — 
feeling — thought — we have in this letter.” 

“He draws a pretty picture of you as you ‘approach the sixth 
ward,’ ” said Colonel Bradford, “ but evidently thinks that you avoid 
the burden and heat of the day.” 

“But Alice,” said Mrs. Bradford, smiling, “you do not read your 
other letter to us. Is that from a soldier too?” 

“Yes, from Louis,” said Alice, coloring as she felt General Vaughan’s 
eye turn quickly on her face; “you know that I do not show his 
letters, sister. Louis does not expect me to do so.” 

“Nursey says that Louis’s Allie’s tweetheart,” said Charlie, looking 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


101 


up from the strings which he was converting into wonderful com- 
binations on the floor. There was a moment’s silence, broken by 
Colonel Bradford. 

“Your guardian will think you are in danger of doing something 
very wild, Alice,” said he laughing, “ so I will come to your defence. 
Louis is only w protegee of Alice’s, Albert; her love for him is about 
as disinterested, I think, as Kate’s is for Charlie. I am not so sure 
about his for her, however.” 

“I have told you of Louis in my letters, Mr. Vaughan,” said Alice, 
looking pleadingly towards him. 

“Yes,” said General Vaughan, briefly, and the conversation turned 
on something else. During the remainder of the evening Alice felt, 
with that quick instinct which tells us when a shadow falls between us 
and those we love, that Albert Vaughan was not pleased with her. 

“If I knew what he wanted me to do I would do it, if it were 
right,” thought Alice, as she threw herself on her couch on reaching 
her room that night, “but give up Louis — refuse to write to him — 
there is no telling what he would do; perhaps rush in the first battle 
and be killed.” 

“I believe she loves me and is true to me,” thought Albert Vaughan 
as he sat musing in his room at the same moment, “but that roman- 
tic temperament — I fear it, especially when it takes the form of con- 
science. To think, at her age, of her taking a young man under her 
care and directing and guiding him! Woman — love — are ye given 
man only for his trial and discipline ? ” 

But each felt that this visit might be the last^ and Alice tried to do 
her duty and leave the rest to God; and Albert tried to put away per- 
sonal feeling and think only of Alice. Alice knew that her friendship 
and correspondence with Louis was widening the space between them; 
that Albert Vaughan was the last man to address a woman of whose 
conduct he felt a doubt. But to her it seemed inevitable, and she 
accepted it as such. And other things than his love of Alice pressed 
heavily on Albert’s mind. 

“ Man’s love is of life a thing apart.” 

The state of the country, the coming campaign, the fate of his ser- 
vants, and the uncertainty of his own life. 

“Albert,” said Colonel Bradford, as the family sat together the last 
evening of General Vaughan’s stay, “I would like to know what you 
I think of the condition of our affairs. I do not believe that you are 
j as sanguine as I am.” 


102 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


“I am not,” said Greneral Vaughan. “Since you ask for my opin- 
ion I will tell you that I think our condition most serious. When I 
consider the power of the North, and that the ports of the world are 
open to her, I will say to this party alone that I believe it would have 
been well if our Commissioners had made the best terms they could 
at Fortress Monroe.” 

“0, it sounds like treason to hear you say so!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Bradford. “This boy was not born to be a slave. Charlie, how many 
Yankees could you whip?” 

“Free,” said Charlie, clapping his hands at the bare idea, “and send 
’em all furling.” 

“Mamma’s little hero!” exclaimed Mrs. Bradford, catching him up 
in her arms, “tell papa and the General you will lead them to battle.” 

“Edward,” said General Vaughan, who had paid little attention to 
this by-play, “I have been intending to say to you, if I should fall, to 
lay me beside my father at Morotock.” 

“Yes,” said Colonel Bradford, “but you drive the roses from Alice’s 
cheeks. You must not be so despondent, my friend.” 

“Ido not wish to yield to despondency,” said General Vaughan, 
“ but I like to see things as they are.” 

A cold chill fell on Alice’s heart. Oh! how her early, beautiful 
ideal of love — of union in life and death and beyond — was fading and 
sinking before the real. Nought left but the beyond^ and it seemed 
dim and far away. But there was no time to think of this now. 
Every thought and feeling must give way before the fact “ he leaves 
to-morrow — perhaps to return no more.” And almost passionately 
Alice strove to cast off the weight that was bearing her down, and 
turn brightly and cheeringly to him. 

Albert saw a part of this, but not the whole — how rarely do men 
thoroughly understand women! And he too threw off* the gloom 
that was oppressing him, and strove to cheer on this last evening. 
Lifting Charlie from the ffoor to a nearer contemplation of his buttons 
and stars, through the half-screen of the child’s clustering curls he 
shot at Alice one of those beaming, radiant glances which, con- 
trasted with his usual cold, calm face, seemed to metamorphose him. 
And Alice, who could bear all things if she felt that she was beloved, 
forgot the future, and rested tranquilly in the bliss of the present. 
And thus Albert Vaughan went forth to the campaign of 1865. 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


103 


CHAPTER X. 

THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 

The first of March, — assumed the appearance of a beleaguered 

city. The approach of raiders on one of the railroads leading to the 
town threw the inhabitants into quite a state of excitement. The 
fortifications were strengthened without delay in the threatened quar- 
ter, and the guard reinforced by militia ordered from a distant town. 
Little was talked of but the threatening aspect of affairs. Neighbors 
met and gathered around the one fire in the “living room” without 
ceremony, — parlor-fires being out of the question on account of the 
scarcity of fuel caused by the impending attack. And as the days 
wore heavily and anxiously on, events assumed a darker aspect. A 
vague rumor, something indefinite — impalpable — none knowing from 
whence it came — floated on the atmosphere that Richmond must be 
given up; the beautiful city that had so long withstood the assaults 
of the enemy must at last fall into his hands. 

Colonel Bradford said little, but looked very serious; nearly the 
whole of his time was now given to strengthening the fortifications 
of the city. Mrs. Bradford said a good deal at first, but was awed 
into something like quiet by her husband’s silence. Mrs. Parker re- 
turned to the city just before the raid, and to her Alice went for 
counsel and comfort. 

“ It may be better that Richmond should be given up,” said Mrs. 
Parker; “there will be more freedom of operation for our armies. At 
any rate, we can only attend to present duty and put our trust in 
God.” 

The morning of the memorable day on which Richmond fell, Mrs. 
Bradford and Alice went down on the street to make some necessary 
Spring purchases. As the clerk took down the three hundred dollar 
calico dress, he asked if they had heard the rumor that Richmond 
had fallen. Mrs. Bradford and Alice both turned pale, but Alice, re- 
covering herself, went on quietly with her purchases. Mrs. Bradford 
looked at her with surprise. 

“Alice, I can’t get anything,” she said; “it seems like Nero’s fid- 
dling while Rome was burning.” 

“I think we had better try and learn self-control,” said Alice; “we 
don’t know what we may be called on to do or endure.” 

“Well, I will try,” said Mrs. Bradford, and with still, quiet faces 


104 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


the two women passed from store to store, each face they met con- 
firming the tidings they had heard. The very air seemed heavy witli 
sad forebodings. Men spoke in an under-tone as if a funeral proces- 
were passing by. The merchants quietly received the Confederate 
money for their goods — could it be that it might be useless? 

‘‘Alice,” whispered Mrs. Bradford, “let us get only what we are 
obliged to have; they might think we want to get rid of the money.” 

Slowly and sadly they walked homeward, only to hear from Col- 
onel Bradford when they reached there that Richmond had without 
doubt fallen; that our army had fallen back; that President Davis 
and cabinet had retreated towards Danville, and that Virginia would 
be given up. 

In a day or two letters arrived from General Vaughan and Louis. 
“It was the only thing that could be done,” wrote General Vaughan. 
“Let them take all but you, Miss Alice,” wrote Louis. 

And now ensued in quick succession the stirring events following 
the fall of Richmond. Only a few hurried words from General 
Vaughan, written on an old envelope, saying that the army had fallen 

back and might be in in a short time, reached them during 

those days of trial. And then came the news that the Army was 
suffering for food, and Alice’s heart seemed to stand still at the thought 
of Albert — and Louis — and that precious, gallant Army — hungering, 
thirsting, watching, marching — perhaps despairing — “ but Oh ! ” she 
thought, “praying and trusting too.” And the cheering tidings were 
soon announced that car-loads of provisions had been dispatched to 
their relief, — well was it that they did not then know that the pro- 
visions never reached them. The ladies of the town now busied 
themselves in preparing every possible comfort for their beloved ones, 
and for the soldiers, to be given them as they passed through. 

“I may only see him for a moment,” thought Alice, her fingers 
scarcely less swift than her thoughts, “and then — ” but she dared 
not ask herself what might be in the future. 

On Sunday morning, the ever-memorable 9th of April, the heavy 

booming of cannon was heard in . What it portended none 

could say. Colonel Bradford’s himily went as usual to church. At 
the first sweet notes of the organ and view of Mr. Henderson's calm, 
holy face and deep, spiritual eyes, looking in his white robes a mes- 
senger of peace from heaven, Alice’s overstrained spirit gave way, 
and soothing, blessed tears flowed freely. The prayers and chants 
quieted her heart and elevated her thoughts, and when Mr. Hender- 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


105 


son commenced his sermon she was prepared to listen. He came 
down within the chancel and knowing that the feverish, anxious state 
of the congregation — with husbands, sons and brothers in the ap- 
proaching army — could ill-brook a regular sermon, he gave them in- 
stead a short address of fatherly counsel and sympathy. He told 
of God’s ever-watchful providence; of faith; of examining and search- 
ing out their own ways; of all things that work together for good to 
them that love God; of the need of affliction in this life, and of the 
endless good it would work hereafter in the “kingdom that cannot 
be moved.” And not one struggling Christian along the narrow way 
left the church that day without comfort. Never did the benediction 
fall more like the soft, sweet showers and sunshine of April on worn 
and throbbing hearts. 

Immediately after dinner Colonel Bradford went out to unite with 
the citizens in collecting provisions for the Army. Alice and Mrs. 
Bradford were sitting talking over the state of affairs, when War- 
wick entered with more haste than he , generally thought consistent 
with his dignity, and announced that “the soldiers are cornin’ up 
back street.” 

Leaving Charlie in his nurse’s arms on the porch, the ladies went 
out, attended by Warwick, with a large basket of provisions for the 
half-starved soldiers. A group of gentlemen stood in earnest con- 
versation on the summit of the hill. 

“It is rumored that General Lee has surrendered,” said one of them 
as Alice and Mrs. Bradford, followed by Warwick, passed hastily by. 

“Impossible!” said Mrs. Bradford. 

Alice was too much surprised to speak. Such an idea — such a pos- 
sibility — had never occurred to her before. A few yards below they 
met another gentlemen — a stranger — but forms were little regarded 
in those days. 

“ It is rumored that General Lee has surrendered,” said Alice, al- 
most mechanically repeating the words she had heard. 

“Is it so?” interrupted Mrs. Bradford. 

“Certainly not,” he replied. 

“ I knew it was only the croaking of those stay-at-home people,” 
said Mrs. Bradford, indignantly. “Alice, let us hurry on to those 
poor fellows.” 

They soon reached a body of wild, dishevelled, ill-clad sdldiei’s. At 
the sight of the proffered basket of provisions there was a general 
rush, and in a few moments it was empty, to the disgust of Warwick. 


106 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


“ It is rumored that General Lee has surrendered,” said Alice, ob- 
serving that the men bore no arms. 

“If he has, I have not,” said a man with a biscuit in his mouth. 
The others were silent, and seeing that the basket was empty, one of 
them gave an order to march, and they passed on. 

Later in the afternoon detached bodies of cavalry entered the city, 
several of which stopped before Colonel Bradford’s open door. Col- 
onel Bradford went out and entered into conversation with the officers, 
whilst Mrs. Bradford and Alice busied themselves in collecting every- 
thing in the house to eat — and also all the tobacco — and sent out to 
them. 

\ “I fear that these men are stragglers,” said Colonel Bradford, re- 
entering the house, “and from what I can gather I think the condi- 
tion of our army must be desperate. If General Lee has not 
surrendered, 1 think he will be obliged to do so in a short time.” 

All sat sadly, quietly down, awaiting farther events. Thoughts of 
the great issues at stake— of Albert and Louis — of the many dear 
ones among friends and neighbors in the Army of Northern Virginia, 
bore heavily on them. Charlie only, elated beyond measure by the 
unwonted sights and sounds of the afternoon, was more buoyant and 
joyous than usual, and all looked to him for comfort. 

The evening prayers were offered as usual. “ God is our refuge and 
strength, a very present help in trouble,” came with new force to their 
bowed and sorrowing hearts. Colonel Bradford’s voice was slightly 
husky during the usual, oft-repeated prayer for soldiers; otherwise all 
was quiet. 

About three o’clock Alice was roused by unusual sounds in the 
house. She listened; there were voices in the hall; her brother’s, 
and — Louis’s ? 0, it was Louis’s ! blessed be God — he is safe ! But 

Albert — Albert — where is he? She rushed out into the hall. 

“Brother — brother!” she cried, and could say no more. 

“Be quiet, Alice,” said her brother, “here is Louis; Vaughan will 
be here in a day or two.” Alice sank on her knees in speechless de- 
votion. “General Lee surrendered yesterday morning with eight 
irhousand men.” 

A moment’s solemn silence followed; silence and darkness — fit as- 
sociates of such a declaration. Alice was the first to recover, divining 
in the darkness that Louis was hurt by her want of greeting. 

“ Louis — dear brother,” she called, “ God be thanked that you are 
safe.” 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


107 


“It was the thought of you, Miss Alice, that kept me true to the 
last,” said Louis; “the men were deserting by scores, and once I 
thought it was of no use, and I need not stay just to be killed. And 
then I thought, how could I meet Miss Alice? And so I am one of 
the eight thousand that surrendered with General Lee.” 

“ The immortal eight thousand ! ” thought Alice, the tears spring- 
ing to her eyes. 

“Alice,” cried Mrs. Bradford from her room, “go back to bed— 
you’ll take cold standing there. Louis, dear, had you rather eat or 
sleep first?” 

^“Six of one and half-dozen of the other,” said Louis; “it would 
puzzle a mathematician to say whether I am most hungry or sleepy. 
But if there’s anything in the house. I’ll take something to eat first.” 

And soon the light-hearted French boy, one of the homeless, pen- 
niless fugitives that now swarmed through the length and breadth of 
the land, was warmed, and fed, and sheltered — welcomed by the love 
which is the only true home. 

“When do you think Vaughan will be here?” said Colonel Brad- 
ford to Louis at breakfast that morning. (Alice had longed to ask 
but dared not. ) 

“This evening, I suppose,” said Louis; “I sought him out before 
leaving, knowing that he was a friend of yours. But he is one of the 
red-tape men who will not leave till everything is arranged. I knew 
there was no more fighting to be done, so oiff I came.” 

“ I wish you would go with me out to the fortifications this morn- 
ing,” said Colonel Bradford; “I fear I shall have troublesome work 
before the Yankees enter.” 

Louis readily assented and they left immediatly after breakfast. 
Alice then proposed to Mrs. Bradford that they should go down to the 
Ladies’ Hospital and see about the sick soldiers, fearing that they 
might be neglected in such a time of confusion and excitement. Ob- 
serving groups of people collecting on the streets, they selected the 
least public way, and met the Governor of Virginia on horseback, 
with a single attendant, evidently fleeing from the city. Mrs. Brad- 
ford and Alice quietly greeted him as he passed, and thought sadly of 
his spirited, stirring address a few days before. As they approached 
Main street the signs of tumult increased; a mob had collected near 
a large warehouse with evident design of pillage. Turning suddenly 
on Main street they were surprised to find At flowing with ardent 
spirits, poured out by order of the Governor before he left the city. 


108 THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 

“Alice,” said Mrs. Bradford, “this might intoxicate us,” and spring- 
ing hastily over the flowing stream they passed to the opposite side 
of the street. 

On reaching the hospital they found every man who was able to 
travel making his few preparations for leaving afoot; there was no 
other way of going. Mrs. Bradford and Alice gave them all the aid 
and counsel in their power, and then turned their attention to sooth- 
ing and nursing the patients who were unable to leave; and thus 
passed the greater part of the morning. 

Colonel Bradford and Louis did not return till nearly night. Col- 
onel Bradford was sick and out of heart. “The men have been dis- 
banded,” he said, “ the guns spiked, and the stores distributed to the 
people; but anarchy reigns, and I will be glad when the Yankees 
come.” 

Louis was tired, but light-hearted. “ I can’t be very miserable here. 
Colonel,” said he, “after the last month in the field.” 

“ife may be here presently,” thought Alice, as she slipped to her 
room and gave a few touches to her toilette. As she re-entered the 
parlor she saw that Louis’s quick eye noted the slight changes in her 
appearance, and immediately it flashed across her mind the necessity 
that his quick, passionate, jealous nature should not be aroused to the 
real condition of things. 

The evening was soft and mild, and the family assembled in the 
back porch commanding the view of city, river, hill, mountain and 
sky. A few minutes later General Vaughan arrived. No one had 
ever «een him so much moved before. He looked pale and worn, and 
greeted them with strong emotion, as friends meet after the loss of 
one mutually dear. Not before had Alice realized that General Lee 
HAD surrendered; but the sight of that unconquerable spirit back 
from the field, broken and crushed, brought home the truth. A pall 
seemed to fall over all Nature; darkness to cover alike river and sky 
and mountain, — the cheerful light of many homes, and sweet, fresh 
green of Spring. No Army of Northern Virginia! The spot around 
which so many hopes and prayers and hearts were gathered — a blank — 
a blot from creation! Could it be — nought where that gallant army 
was? No place for the mighty energies — the unconquerable will — 
the fiery valor of that living host? 

Alice paused, for General Vaughan was reading the few, simple 
words of the Surrender. He ceased, and then came tears — blessed 
tears — and from over river and hill, and sky and mountain, and 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 109 

Southern home, the pall was lifted and a great peace followed. Peace, 
such as the mourner feels when the dead in Cdirist has been laid be- 
neath the sod, the last prayers uttered, and all is over. 

‘•There is one hope,” said Colonel Bradford; “Johnson army re- 
mains — but this poor battered body won’t let me join it, and you and 
Louis are on parole.” 

“It don’t matter,” said General Vaughan sadly; “Johnson won’t 
be able to sustain himself now. Our cause is hopeless. It only re- 
mains to submit and make the best of it.” 

“Thank God,” said Louis, “that I have come out with a whole 
body, and I can work, if not at one thing, at another. Any way, I 
am glad that the war is over.” 

General Vaughan turned a look of something like contempt on 
Louis, but said nothing. He looked so weary and hopeless that Alice 
longed unutterably to comfort and soothe him, and the expression 
of her eyes and tones of her voice as she addressed him startled 
Louis. 

“You have never looked and spoken to me as you do to Vaughan,” 
said he in a low voice to her, following her to the other end of the 
porch. 

Alice was startled; she shrank unutterably from having her heart’s 
secret exposed to view before her lover declared himself. 

“I have known General Vaughan all my life, Louis,” she said, 
“ and he is one of my truest friends, and you see how he suffers. 
Dear Louis,” she continued, playfully placing her hand within his 
arm, “do not think that my heart is too small for two friends.” 

Louis, ajittle abashed, said no more. General Vaughan observed 
Alice’s action with surprise, and not without disapproval of its ap- 
parent freedom. 

“An uncultivated youth, with low views — what can she see in 
him?” he thought. 

But the Federal troops are now daily expected to enter the city. 
Gold pieces — those who had them — are stitched in the clothes of un- 
conscious little children; family silver, communion-service and wedding 
rings are buried; ardent spirits and domestic wines are poured out; 
Masonic emblems are displayed on the walls of houses; all things are 
in trembling expectation of the enemy’s arrival. At one place there 
was peace and rest and comfort — the church. Mr. Henderson, whose 
faith and prayers, hopes and substance, and first-born son had been 
with the Confederacy through the four trying years which are past. 


110 THE LAST DATS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 

was as serenely bright and courageous as ever — “strong in faith, giv- 
ing glory to God.” From the scenes described above, the people went 
to hear loving, earnest, helpful exhortations on “taking joyfully the 
spoiling of your goods, knowing that ye have in heaven a better and 
an enduring substance,” — “for we desire a better country, that is an 
heavenly,” with other passages of a similar nature. And truly some- 
thing beyond and above this world was needed then, for strong men’s 
hearts were failing them for those things that had come upon them. 
General Lee had surrendered! Anything was possible after that. 

The very air was rife with rumors. At one time it was reported 
that a French fleet had appeared in the Gulf of Mexico for the de- 
fence of the Confederacy; at another, that England had acknowl- 
edged her independence; and when the news of President Lincoln’s 

assassination reached , it was regarded by many as only one of 

the flying rumors of the day, too wild to be credited — truth stranger 
than fiction. And then in quick succession followed the tidings of 
President Davis’s capture — one President slain, the other in irons. 

About ten days after General Lee’s surrender the Federal troops 

marched into — and took quiet possession of the town. Private 

property was undisturbed, and altogether, owing to the period of the 
occupation, suffered less than any Virginia city. Silver and gold 
were unearthed and restored to their usual place. Little children 
were relieved of their mysterious hoards, and the tears sprang to 
Alice’s eyes as she heard at the Offertory on the Sunday following 
the unusual sound of the clink of silver — the first ^he had heard for 
four years. Numbers of Confederate ofiicers and soldiers swarmed in 
the town, having scarce means to stay and none to get away. No 
one who has not passed through it can realize the condition of things 
at the South at this time. The prostration of business among the 
people at home; the number of homeless, penniless soldiers cast sud- 
denly on the land, — together with the newly-liberated, childish, be- 
wildered freedmen, seeming to look on life as one vast holiday. But 
for the generosity and sympathy of Southern people towards each 
other during the crisis, the suffering would have been far greater. 

One morning the city was thrown into commotion by an order from 
the Federal authorities requiring ex-Confederates to report at head- 
quarters, and state their mode of employment, or manner of getting 
a living. 

“I will tell them that I am subject to your orders. Miss Alice,” said 
Louis, as the family lingered at the dinner-table discussing the subject. 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY: 111 

“It is time that we should decide what we are to do,” said General 
Vaughan; “my mind is made up.” Ail eyes turned towards him. 
“ I will go at once to Morotock and acquaint the servants with their 
freedom, and try and put them in a way to take care of themselves 
and look after the farm, till things are under way at the Theological 
Seminary. I will then” — his eye turning towards Alice — “put in 
execution my long-cherished resolve of studying for the ministry.” 

“You will have to learn to love all sorts of people better than you 
do, before you are ready to be a minister,” thought Louis. 

“ Kate — Alice,” said Colonel Bradford, “ I have an idea — I see now 
my father’s wisdom in requiring me to place a sura of money in Lon- 
don just before the war broke out, though I opposed him at the time. 
The doctors have said a sea-voyage would be the thing for me; shall 
we go to Europe ? ” 

Mrs. Bradford’s eyes glistened. “It has been the dream of my 
life,” she said; “what say you, Alice?” 

Alice, surprised, scarcely knew what to say. To leave Louis — Al- 
bert — their country — their fallen country^— could they, ought they to 
do so? 

“What is it, Alice? ” asked her brother. 

“Ought we to leave our country now?” said Alice. 

“ Never would I leave it while a shadow of hope remained,” said 
Colonel Bradford, “ but now — defeated — overthrown — not knowing 
what may be before us, why should we stay?” Alice looked at Gen- 
eral Vaughan and Louis. 

“Your brother is right,” said General Vaughan; “I see no reason 
why he should not leave the country, at least for a year.” 

“ I would go. Miss Alice,” said Louis, sighing, “ and if you all stay 
over there long, look out for something for me to do and I will go 
too.” 

And so it was decided, suddenly and unexpectedly, that they should 
go to Europe. Colonel Bradford wrote to a friend in Norfolk and 
engaged a position as clerk for Louis, who was to accompany them 
that far on their way. General Vaughan remained only a day or two 
after their plans were formed; his decision made, he was anxious to 
put it in execution. 

Conscious that Louis’s jealous, watchful eye was upon her, Alice 
was more than usually constrained in her manner towards Albert 
during the remainder of his stay; whilst he, watching her narrowly, 
could not divine why she was so much afraid of Louis. “ If she re- 


112 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE COKFEDERACY. 


mains true to me till her return from Europe,” he thought, ** there 
will then be time enough for me to declare my love for her. I do 
not wish to draw her into a long, indefinite engagement.” 

Alice felt wearily that a new life in a foreign land was to be taken 
up still amid the heart-sickness of hope deferred, but ‘*it is the will 
of God,” she thought, ‘‘ He cannot err. Albert may be wrong, but 
he thinks he is right, and he is a better judge of what is right than 
I am. Thank God! he will now be at the Seminary and not in th(t 
field.” And earnestly, as at their partings during the war, Alice 
strove to meet his eye trustingly and cheerfully, as tenderly and with 
restrained emotion he bade her farewell. 

General Vaughan gone, the family commenced immediate prepara- 
tions for departure. There was much to be done. Business matters, 
suspended during the war, to be arranged; the house rented; the 
servants looked after, — all things put in order for a year’s sojourn in 
a foreign land. In June, Colonel Bradford visited Cooleemee, and ac- 
quainted the servants with the fact of their newly-acquired freedom — 
at first to Mammy’s indignation, who could not brook the idea of 
being a “ free-nigger,” but was gradually reconciled to the difference 
of becoming a “ freed-woman.” Such arrangements as could be ef- 
fected in the existing state of “labor and capital,” were made for 
keeping up the plantation during the absence of the family in Eu- 
rope. Mammy agreed, as formerly, to take care of the house “for 
Miss Alice, till she brings a grand lord from furrin parts.” Uncle 
Israel was the only one of the servants who positively refused to be 
free. “I was born in the Bradford fam’ly — I’ve alius lived in the 
Bradford fam’ly, and I’m not gwine to change my constivation the 
little while I’ve got to stay this side Jordan,” said he, and it mattered 
little practically with Uncle Israel whether he was a slave in his own 
eyes or not — to be taken care of was all that remained for him. 

“ Everything looks pretty much the same,” said Colonel Bradford, 
detailing the particulars of his visit to Cooleemee to Mrs. Bradford 
and Alice; “Mammy keeps the yard and garden in beautiful order, 
and the grave-yard looks like a little Eden — if death could enter 
Eden — of grassy hillocks, gleaming tomb-stones, and flowers. There 
is but one change, Alice, since you left — Rush is dead. She dwindled 
and pined. Mammy said, after her old master died, and they buried 
her at the foot of the embankment below Charlie’s grave.” Sadly 
arose before Alice’s mind the beautiful, deserted home — now, alas! 
but one of many all over the South. 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE COHFEDEKACY. 


113 


There was greater delay in getting off than they anticipated, but 
at length passage was engaged on the Cunard steamer Scotia^ which 
was to sail from New York for Liverpool on the 9th of August. 
One trial awaited them before leaving: the oath of allegiance to the 
United States government. “lam so glad that I am married and 
won’t have to take it,” said Mrs. Bradford, “and as for Charlie, I 
verily believe that he is born a rebel. Did you see him put that Con- 
federate button on his cap the other day and strut up and down be- 
fore those Yankee soldiers?” 

“Yes, and you and he may make me another William Tell for your 
pains,” said the Colonel, laughing; “remember that I am to answer 
for both of you.” 

Louis had lingered from time to time, expecting that they would 
leave earlier. Alice did not conceal from him that she thought it 
best he should go on and not wait for them. “Bear with me this 
once. Miss Alice,” said he sadly, “it is for the last time. After you 
are gone I can go to work as a necessity and duty, but not before.” 

Slowly, and amidst storms of conflict and suffering, it was dawn- 
ing on Louis’s mind that Alice would never love him as he wished; 
but not the less did he love her, and feel that his love could never 
change. “I will take the love she can give me,” he thought, “and 
God help me to be thankful for it; but I must love her forever — she 
is the one woman in the world to me.” All his heart — and struggle — 
lay open before Alice, and aroused a sympathy and tenderness which, 
while it could have given no offence to Albert, might have soothed 
even Louis. 

Before leaving, Alice had a long conversation with Mrs. Parker in 
reference to the new and strange turn which affairs had taken. Mrs. 
Parker’s faith was not less strong than Mr. Henderson’s, and her in- 
tellect was of a broader type than his. She had lost nearly all of her 
ample means by the result of the war; her only son was a cripple; 
but she was serene and undisturbed. “I would have nothing differ- 
ent from what it is,” she said. “Alice, think of the condition of the 
disciples at the time of the crucifixion of our Lord. How sad appar- 
ently were all things concerning that little band; but what was it in 
reality? The central picture — the point on which the world turns, — 
the event foretold from the beginning on which depended the salva- 
tion of a lost world. We may behold its gloom and darkness slightly 
reflected in our ‘ scattered and peeled ’ condition, but out of it there 
will come glory to God and good to man.” 


114 


THE LAST DAYS OP TDE CO^’TEDEEACY. 


‘‘What a sermon was that of Mr. Henderson’s yesterday,” said 
Alice: ‘“Submit yourselves to every ordinance of man /or the Lord's 
sake' What a motive is given us for submitting to a government 
established by force.” 

“Yes, He who seeth the End from the Beginning and knows what 
the history of this world will be, gives us this motive to soften and 
sweeten its hardships,” said Mrs. Parker. “Alice, our condition can 
hardly be worse than that of the Christians under Nero when St. 
Peter wrote those words.” 

“I have been so troubled,” said Alice, “about the prayer for the 
President and all others in authority. Can I ask for blessings on such 
a Giovernment and rulers?” 

“Do you wish the contrary?” said Mrs. Parker; “do you wish 
for curses to fall on that Government and rulers?” 

“0 no!” said Alice, “I have no feeling of that kind.” 

“Then you can pray for them,” said Mrs. Parker; “strive, my dear 
child, to do your duty and the right feelings will come in time. We 
cannot force our feelings; our souls were created free, and freedom is 
the great law of our action. But if you pray and try to do what you 
know is right, the right feelings will come more and more till you are 
wholly and forever freed from sin.” 

“Until the wings are restored to the soul,” said Alice, softly; “that 
was a beautiful thought of the ancients, that at death the ‘lost wings ’ 
would be restored. And what seems to impede their growth here, 
dear friend, no doubt will make them soar higher and higher here- 
after.” 

“And not only hereafter, but here^ my child,” said Mrs. Parker. 
“ Every lofty aspiration after goodness, every wrong feeling subdued, 
brings man back more nearly to his unfallen state. The sincere 
Christian, amidst all his trials and difficulties, does not wait till here- 
after for his reward. The kingdom of God is within you^ — the begin- 
ning of the joy which ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath 
entered into the heart of man to conceive.’ ” 

But the time rapidly drew near for departure; everything was put 
in order; many kindnesses bestowed on neighbors less rich in worldly 
gear than the Bradfords, — and the 6th of August, the day set for 
starting, dawned brightly on our party. They were to leave that af- 
ternoon in the canal-boat, the railroads being still unrepaired, and go 
to Richmond; thence down the James by Norfolk to New York in 
time to sail in the Scotia on the 9th. At 10 o’clock in the morning 

O 


THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 


115 


/ 


the family went to the church, where they were met by Doctor Prin- 
gle, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Parker, and numerous other friends and ac- 
quaintances, to attend a special farewell Service appointed ,by Mr. 
Henderson, before committing the best-beloved of his flock to the 
great deep. 

“I wish to send you forth,” said he, “like Columbus when he 
started on the discovery of a New World. Who knows what terra 
incognito awaits you beyond?” 

The services were most touching and beautiful, the New Testament 
lesson for the day being one of those singular coincidences which not 
unfrequently occurs in life — St. Paul’s parting from the elders at 
Miletus: 

“And now, behold, I go bound in the spirit unto Jerusalem, not 
knowing the things that shall befall me there : 

“Save that the Holy Grhost witnesseth in every city, saying that 
bonds and afflictions abide me. 

“jBiti none of these things move me, neither count I my life dear unto 
myself, so that I might* finish my course with joy, and the ministry, 
which 1 have received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the 
grace of Grod.” 

Did these words occur to Alice in the fiery trial that awaited her 
beyond the seas? 

And now, farewell to thee, young Confederacy ! Only four years 
of age, yet baptized in blood, and gone down in a sea of blood. Hrief 
will be the page which thou fillest in the world’s history, yet hast 
thou given to the world a Jackson and a Lee. The record of thy 
deeds will go to make up the Book of Time, and when “Time shall 
be no longer” the spirits whom thou hast trained will swell the ranks 
of “the kingdom that shall not be destroyed.” 


116 


ACROSS THE ATLANTia 


BOOK 111. 


ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER I. 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 

Our party reached Richmond early on the morning of the 7th, 
drove to a hotel for breakfast, and then down to the wharf. With 
saddened hearts they passed through the burnt district of the city, 
but little was said. They got on board a small boat plying to City 
Point, and were soon moving rapidly down the majestic James. Mrs. 
Bradford went below with Charlie; Colonel Bradford entered into 
conversation with some gentlemen on board, and Louis asked Alice 
to come and promenade on deck with him. Alice could not refuse; 
though she feared and dreaded what this last interview might bring. 

The morning was bright and joyous, yet contained that indefina- 
ble something which indicates in summer the approach of autumn. 
Alice felt and spoke of this as they paced the deck, her hand resting 
lightly on Louis’s arm. 

“ I don’t know why it is,” she said, “ but there is something in this 
atmosphere, this first feeling of the fall’s approach, which brings to 
my mind some lines I read long ago, and they are peculiarly appro- 
priate now. They areja part of a song supposed to be addressed by 
the spirits of those who have gone before to the loved ones who re- 
main on earth: 

“ ‘We too have passed o’er Life’s wild sea. 

In a frail and shattered boat — 

But the Pilot was sure and we nailed secure. 

When we seemed but scarce afloat.’ 

“ I don’t know what the association is, but they come to me at the 
first breath of autumn. It may be the fleeting glory of the summer 
awakes a yearning for the sureness of the Pilot — ‘in all things or- 
dered and sure,’ ” — she continued in a low voice. 

“Miss Alice,” said Louis, who had been listening in silence, “I do 
not believe there is any one in the world who talks and writes as you 
do.” 

“I fear you are not the best of judges, Louis,” said Alice, smiling, 
“when you talk and write to no one else.” 

“Not that I think you so beautiful,” continued Louis quietly, his 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 


117 


eye resting on her face; “you haven’t half the pink-and-white beauty, 
or regularity of feature, of some of those girls you tried to get me to 
fall in love with; but ’tis the something that looks from those eyes 
and speaks from those lips that has made me yours forever.” 

“ If that isn’t an original way,” said Alice, endeavoring to smile 
archly and divert him from his purpose; but meeting his calm, 
thoughtful look, so different from his usual manner, she gave way 
and burst into tears. 

“It is the last time. Miss Alice,” said be, “and you who look so to 
spiritual things ought not to grieve at my unreturned love, for more 
than anything else, it has made me feel that I am immortal.” 

“And to be one in Christ, Louis,” said Alice, “is the only lasting 
union; without it earth’s friendships and loves are but as the morn- 
ing cloud and the early dew that pass away.” 

•• I will think of that,” said Louis, “ and in Him we will never be 
separated. And now. Miss Alice, let me show you some of the points 
where we bivouacked early in the war,” — and far along the shore 
Louis’s quick eye detected one spot and another, recalling stirring or 
sad reminiscences. 

Colonel Bradford now approached, and said that they would soon 
reach City Point, where Louis was to leave them for Norfolk, and 
they were to get on a larger boat, the Creole^ bound for New York. 
Soon after, Mrs. Bradford appeared on deck, with Charlie. All were 
quiet except Charlie, who was vociferous in his delight at everything, 
clapping his hands and talking incessantly. 

“ Stand up here, Charlie,” said Colonel Bradford, “ here is a deck 
for you, and say ‘ Casabianca ’ for Louis — I think you know the first 
two verses.” 

Charlie willingly obeyed, proud of his accomplishments, and with 
head erect and waving hand, commenced: — 

" The boy stood on the btirnine deck, 

Whence all but him had fled; 

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck. 

Shone round him o'er the dead, 

•* Yet beautiful and bright be stood, 

A.S born to rule the storm; 

A preacher of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like torm.*' 

In the laugh and applause which followed Charlie’s effort City 
Point was reached, as Colonel Bradford intended it should be, and 
there was only time for hurried farewells. 

“One forever in Christ,” murmured Alice, as Louis bent with pale, 
calm face to kiss her. 


118 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 


And one was gone to a new home — the other into the wide world. 
Complaining of fatigue, Alice retired to her state-room. There was 
no pretence in it, for she felt an utter collapse now that the long need 
for exertion was over. She laid down on the sofa; the fresh breeze 
fanned her face from the open window above; the boat glided over 
the waters with scarcely a perceptible motion; everything in the little 
state-room was neat and orderly. Alice felt that relief in being alone 
which is at times a necessity to all thoughtful minds. She had so 
much to think over on the eve of this great change in life. The 
war — to whose end she had never dared to look — now ended; Charlie 
and her father, passed from earth during that four years’ traged}"; the 
soldiers and hospitals; the servants; Louis and his love, and dearly 
as Alice loved Louis — because she loved him dearly — she drew a long 
breath of relief at the thought that now they were parted for a time. 

And then her thoughts rested where she knew they were coming 
and would rest at last — on Albert Vaughan, — the still, silent, unde- 
clared lover whom she had so long loved. She could not often think 
of him without a pang; and now, the war over, the beginning of an- 
other future seemed opening before her — apart from him. She felt 
desolate-i-alone. Her brother and sister needed her not in their hap- 
piness; Louis’s love, more a source of trouble than of joy to her; and 
he from whom she had the right to expect all, cold and self-restrained, 
rose before her. “‘Lover and friend hast thou put far from me,’ ” 
burst from her agonized heart. Her grief seemed too great for words, 
even for words in prayer, but she looked to God with a great yearn- 
ing “Thou knowest,” and relief immediately came; the burden was 
lightened — there was knowledge and sympathy with God. Her door 
was ajar, and her brother’s voice in conversation with his wife in their 
state-room opposite her own just then reached her, mingled with 
Charlie’s prattle and laughter. A shudder passed over her frame as 
she turned her face to the wall, murmuring, “Not for me.” But ac- 
customed to look to the Bible for comfort and help, her thoughts 
turned to it. “I will betroth thee unto me for ever; yea, I will be- 
troth thee unto me in righteousness, and in judgment, and in loving- 
kindness, and in mercies,” rose before her mind. And then, “Thy 
Maker is thy husband.” “The mountains shall depart, and the hills 
be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither 
shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath 
mercy on thee.” 

“I bless Thee, 0 my God, that Thou dost understand women,” rose 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 


119 


in a great sigh of relief from Alice’s overcharged heart. “ He loves 
me — God \oYes me — ^ my beloved is mine, and I am his’ — forever.” 
When Alice joined her brother and sister at dinner, Mrs. Bradford 
marked with surprise the more than usually elevated and softened 
expression of her face, hut knew nx)t that a love greater than any she 
had known, had been with her. 

Norfolk was passed in the night; Norfolk, the fair city of the sea — 
now Louis’s home. Alice lay half-awake, visions of Louis, of the 
war, of the eventful, living drama of Doctor Wright, floating through 
her brain. Doctor Wright’s imprisonment, his attempted escape in 
the dress of his daughter, whilst she lay on her father’s bed with 
covered head, her delicate foot encased in his heavy boot hanging over 
the foot of the bed; his arrest and return; the marriage of his 
daughter in prison, and his own baptism there; the parting from his 
family, and the march to the gallows attended by ten thousand Fed- 
eral soldiers along the deserted streets and closed blinds of the beau- 
iiful city, — all passed before her mind like the scenes of a panorama 
as they neared the city. “ Thus life looks to us,” mused she, “ but 
how looks it from the other side ? God and the angels see a soul led 
by trial to faith, and other souls disciplined and purified — lifted 
through agony above this earth.” She committed all — Louis and 
Louis’s ^ome — the city in which Southern hearts had been wrung to 
God, and fell asleep. * 

She was aroused in the early morning by her brother's voice telling 
her they were passing Fortress Monroe. Alice raised up and looked 
through her \Vindow on the grand old pile, — dear\)nly as containing 
the imprisoned body of the j^eroic, fallen chief of the Confederacy — 
Jefferson Davis. She gazed at it through blinding tears, and waved 
her handkerchief from the window with the yearning desire to do 
something to manifest her sympathy. “0 that I could be there in 
his place!” thought she. 

They reached New York on the morning of the 9th, and stopped 
at the New York Hotel, where some prominent Southerners were 
then staying. The Scotia was not to sail till the next morning, giv- 
ing them, to Mrs. Bradford’s delight, a little time for shopping before 
they embarked. “To think of my getting those large bonnets, 
Alice,” said she in a tone of dismay, as she looked from her window 
on the street, “and yonder go all the ladies in small ones! And Ed- 
ward, really, in your Confederate clothes you don’t look as well as the 
waiters here.” 


120 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 


man’s a man for a’ that,’ Kalie,”said he smiling; “however, if 
you wish it I’ll go out and put myself in Yankee attire.” 

“In Parisian, not Yankee,” said Mrs. Bradford, wincing a little; 
“ Paris sets the fashions for the world.” 

Colonel and Mrs. Bradford had* been in New York on their bridal 
tour, but this was Alice’s first visit; and the war just over and Eu- 
rope before her she felt little interest in seeing New York. She was 
struck by the glare and glitter of Broadway, especially in the even- 
ing, scarcely harmomizing with her ideas of good taste. And both 
Alice and Mrs. Bradford were shocked on seeing the words “ Beauty 
and Booty,” — associated with the worst features of the war — stamped 
in the window of a shoe-store on Broadway. 

But the morrow found them on board the Scotia with almost a feel- 
ing of going home — to England — her Church — her literature — their 
own too. They looked with joy to the English flag waving from the 
ship, with the feeling, “Here I can rest.” 

The most vivid description of the voyage is contained in a letter 
from Alice to Louis, written soon after the arrival of our party in 
London, Let us step into the dusky counting-room in Norfolk and 
look over Louis’s shoulder as he reads: — 

St. James’s Hotel, Piccadilly, London, 
Augvst 22, 186.5. 

I hope you received Brother’s letter written in New York, dear 
Louis, giving you an account of our journey so far; and now I will 
take up the broken thread of his narrative, and carry you with us 
across the ocean. Shall I tell you that I enjoyed it very much, leav- 
ing New York harbor? The day was lovely, the scenery beautiful — 
islands dotted with handsome residences, the noble expanse of water, 
the gallant ship on whose deck I stood, and the number of other 
ships around me, all conspired to make it, to a novice, delightful and 
exhilarating. Besides, I liked the novelty of an English ship and 
fiag, everything looking so English and thorough^ and as we struck out 
to sea I long watched the receding shore — sometimes musing on all I 
left behind, and at others repeating scraps of “ My native land, Good- 
night.” I went to the table the first day, but already had become 
sufficiently under the influence of the “Old Man of the Sea” to be 
able to touch nothing but champagne — the first and last time I 
touched it. The next day I awoke feeling so badly as to make it a 
herculean effort to dress; but in spite of many stoppages this was at 
last effected, as I yearned for the fresh air on deck. During the re- 
mainder of the voyage, till the last day, I passed nearly the whole 
time on deck — had all my meals there— sitting near the centre of the 
ship where it is comparatively steady. Sister suffered somewhat as I 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 


121 


did — but far less. Brother has improved every day; “Life on the 
Ocean Wave ” he says is the life for him. Charlie was perfectly well 
the whole time — threw only two hats into the ocean. He was the 
pit of the ship; even the austere Captain would thaw into smiles and 
oranges on his approach. We had a wonderfully smooth passage; 
not a storm, nothing but fogs to make us at all anxious. Several of 
these fogs were heavy as we approached the region of icebergs; and 
this, with the quick, sharp sound of the fog-whistle giving warning 
to ships concealed by the fog, gave us just enough sense of danger to 
add a touch of tragic interest to our life. We passed near the outlet 
ot Baffin Bay; it was very cold part of the time, but I remained on 
deck enveloped in shawls and enjoying the keen, bracing sea-air. 
Everything was full of interest tome; the swift, glancing motion of 
the sliip through the great waters with its trail of light behind, the 
porpoises leaping up in the air and following the ship, the graceful 
and beautiful birds of passage, and, above all to meet with another 
ship. This is one of the most striking objects at sea. It approaches 
you with its white wings outspread, and yet with no apparent mo- 
tion, advancing with viewless steps as if it were a spirit-ship — 

“Ab silent as a painted ship, 

Upon a painted ocean." 

Captain Judkins fills exactly Sydney Smith’s description of an 
Englishman — find it, if you can, and read it Louis — and is certainly 
m aster on his ship. I looked with interest at each sturdy sailor as he 
hauled up or hauled down the sails, (I don’t pretend to much in nau- 
tical phrase). Brass buttons shone with uncovered glory here on the 
coats of Confederates, side by side with the mercantile suit of the 
side-whiskered Federal. Afid, by-the-way, there was a fight on board 
between a Northern and a Southern boy, and high words between two 
ladies representing the opposite parties; otherwise all went on ami- 
cably — the men showing no disposition to renew the conflict. 

The leading nations of the earth were represented here — English, 
American, French, German, etc., and the ear was continually assailed 
by foreign sounds. There was a Spanish party from Cuba, with a 
lovely little “Senorita” with eyes like a houri, who wore various- 
colored scarfs and turbans with bewitching grace. There were Ger- 
mans and Frenchmen from New York, and a fine-loooking old 
gentleman with his pretty, modest, fresh-looking daughter from New 
England, — an Englishman who had fought in the Northern army, 
and one who had fought in the Southern — and more than I can tell 
you. 

But Oh! I must tell you of the nuns — those cloistered sisters of 
humanity — but these did not look very cloistered, notwithstanding 
their peculiar dress, promenading on deck with Confederate officers 
and playing cards! One of them was from New Orleans and a warm 
Southerner, who won Sister’s heart by saying when she wished to do 
penance she prayed for the Yankees. You know what I would think 
of such a speech as that. My experience during the war was good 


122 


ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 


for me, for I talked freely to everybody around, and everybody talked 
to me. And I would sit on deck and see the sun dip behind the 
ocean, aud afar into the gloaming, and muse over this strange life, 
and the people brought together for a few days on this slight arena, 
and wonder if those who pass each other on life’s highway with a 
civil or kindly greeting will meet with a clasp of recognition in the 
great Beyond — and eyes that look fully into each other’s soul. 

And now I come to the last day at sea — one to be marked with 
white. Thursday night, the 16 th, we approached the Irish coast. 
Signals were exchanged between our ship and a dispatch-boat which 
came out to lake the mail. The mail in a barrel was thrown into the 
sea, picked up b}^ the boat, hurried off ashore, and the next day the 
arrival of the ‘‘Royal mail steamship Scotia" off’ the coast of Ireland 
was heralded in English papers. In the morning I caught my first 
glimpse of “Erin’s green isle,” — a beautiful stretch of land, moun- 
tain, beech, houses and villages extending away on the left. At the 
first sight of land all my sea-sickness, debility, languor, physical and 
mental vanished. Brother said that I was “ transfigured,” and that 
••my sea-life reminded him of what some cynic said of marriage, that 
it had only two happy days, the first and the last. The sea was won- 
derfully smooth and here lost its opaque, swelling form and stretched 
away in a broad, beautiful plain. Over the waters, sea-gulls with 
their white breasts and dark wings flew, while numbers of smaller 
white ones lit on them. And here a ship appeared in view — like a 
vision — a shadowy messenger from the world beyond. As it glided 
l)y with scarcely apparent motion over the smooth waters, the fleet- 
ing nature of all earthly things came over my mind, and from afar, 
like a strain of music rose on the memory those warning words of 
the Church: “So teach us to pass through things temporal that 
finally we lose not the things eternal.” 

In the afternoon we approached the coast of Wales on the right— 
a hilly, bleak-looking country. Ship after ship now approached us, 
graceful and aerial-looking as “castles in the air;” and occasionally 
a light-house shot up before us from its lone island in the sea. I 
thought of you, Louis, as I gazed on the exquisite landscape of sea 
and shore and ship and sky, with the soft enchantment which dis- 
tance lends, hanging over it. 

The passengers now all crowded “forward” on deck, in eager an- 
ticipation of the end of the voyage. As the evening waned the scene 
became one of absorbing interest. A boat approached from the shore 
bearing a pilot, to carry us through the channel into harbor. The* 
ship was given into his hands and the Captain’s responsibiliiy ceased. 
As it grew dark the stars came out in the sky, and light-house after 
light-house shot up from the shore. 

“ I thought that the light-house look’d lovely as Hope, 

That star on Lile’s tremulous sea.” 

Rockets were sent up on our ship and responded to on shore. And 
now a scene of unrivalled beauty and splendor burst upon our view. 


123 


“old isle akd glorious.” 

Numerous ships of every size and variety, containing many-colored 
lights, lay within the harbor; some floating gently around as if for 
the mere pleasure of motion — others, a beautiful figure of strength 
in repose, — while just beyond them and far around, on the right 
hand and on the left, lay an unbroken curve of glittering lights. 
Like stars resting on the water, old Ocean shone with a diadem on his 
brow. It looked the marriage of the land and sea, or as if we bore 
some mighty Conqueror home, and land and sea were striving to do 
him honor. “Thus,” I thought, “it may be as we approach the 
heavenly city — thus will the Conqi^eror over Life’s stormy sea be 
welcomed to the Gates of Pearl;” and again from afar came those 
words, as if from an unseen world, amid the noise and congratula- 
iions and bustle and hurry denoting that the voyage had ended: “So 
teach us to pass through things temporal that finally we lose not the 
things eternal.” 


CHAPTER II. 

“old isle and glorious.” 

Our party stopped for one night in Liverpool and proceeded to 
London the next day. Colonel Bradford’s intention was to remain 
several days in London and then go to Leamington, which charming 
English town had been a favorite rendezvous of Southerners during 
the w.ir, and where not a few still lingered, not knowing whither 
lo go. 

Colonel Bradford was much pleased with Liverpool. “There is 
such an air of unpretending substantialness about her buildings,” 
said he, “there is something stable here.” The journey from Liver- 
pool to London was like a fairy-tale. It was one of the loveliest of 
English August days, and the way lay through beautiful hedges, giv- 
ing an appearance of finished culture to eyes who had only seen 
hedges encircling the finest gardens of Virginia. Church and villa, 
stone-bridge and winding stream, meadow and harvest-field, lawn and 
green embankment succeeded each other in delightful variety. 

“ 0, it seems as if the primeval curse was removed from the land,” 
said Alice, looking from the car-window in delighted wonder, “for 
there are neither thorns nor briars here.” 


124 


“old isle and glorious.” 

“ But in the sweat of nations they have been removed,” said Colo- 
nel Bradford, his eyes following hers, “and by their sweat it is kept 
so.” 

But there was little space for philosophizing. On the right hand 
and on the left they eagerly turned their eyes, each calling to the 
other — “Look! Look!” as some new beauty for a moment appeared 
in view, and then disappeared in the rapidly-flitting motion of the 
cars. Charlie clapped his hands and shouted in a general hilarious 
state of delight, his voice fortunately so lost in the sound and motion 
of the cars as to excite no wonder or alarm, and as they were alone 
in their coach, no staid Englishman was startled from his proprieties 
by it. Alice’s imagination was filled — the eye was satisfied with see- 
ing — or if aught of the sublime was wanting in the sylvan loveliness 
of the scene, she lifted her eyes to the sky or reverted for an instant 
in thought to the ocean, or the blue mountains, grand rivers and deep 
forests of Virginia; and thus before her or in the “chambers of im- 
agery” was all that she wanted to satisfy her love of the beautiful 
and sublime in Nature. 

* They reached London a little before sunset — a lurid, London sun- 
set — and drove immediately to St. James’s Hotel. 

“0 Alice!” said Mrs. Bradford as they entered their suite of apart- 
ments, “let us pinch ourselves and see if it is really you and I — in 
London — on Piccadilly — near St. James’s Park. Let us look and see 
if “my Lord” is not driving down the street — or “my Lady” coming 
to call on us. You must catch an English lord, Alice — ^you are 
pretty, and graceful and clever enough for anybody.” 

“She will have to see him before she can catch him,” said Colonel 
Bradford, laughing. “My fair ladies, you must not expect to meet 
English lords and ladies as you do in “Almack’s” or “My Novel.” 
You must be content with exiled Southerners, like yourselves, for you 
will only see English people on the street, or at public places.” 

“Well, we can do without them,” said Mrs. Bradford with a toss 
of her head, “but it would not be so if they came to Virginia under 
similar circumstances.” 

“Certainly it would not,” said Colonel Bradfi rd; “we would meet 
’em with open arms, and dine ’em and supper ’em and fete ’em to 
their hearts’ content — but you don’t expect anywhere else in the 
world to be like Old Virginia, Kate?” 

“As for me,” said Alice, “I feel as if 1 had come to the country of 
Shakspeare and Byron and Addison; I am not thinking of the pres- 


“old isle and glorious.” 125 

ent race of Englishmen — except Bulwer — and he seems to me more 
allied with the past than the present.” 

“You will have to go to Westminster Abbey for your Englishmen 
then,” said Colonel Bradford, “for I am inclined to think with Ten- 
nyson that ‘ The last great Englishman is low,’ or they would have 
helped the South. But I must be off to my bankers’, and prove my 
identity to Messrs. Macmillan & Co., and enquire about a nurse for 
Charlie, Kate, or he’il kill you or himself one,” — and kissing his 
wife. Colonel Bradford went off to business, leaving her and Alice to 
arrange their domestic programme. 

In less than an hour he returned, his face beaming with pleasure. 
“ I’ve met a friend already,” he said, “just coming out of Macmillan’s. 
You can’t guess who, Kate. My college friend, Robert Graham — a 
magnificent fellow — beats an English lord, Alice — don’t you remem- 
ber him ? He was at Cooleemee once during vacation — but you were 
a little thing then. He is older than I but has never married — some 
early disappointment, I have heard. He is a fine lawyer, speaker and 
writer — can do anything, though I fear he has wasted his talents. 
There is amission for you, Alice; reclaim that man and you will do 
a great work. He was ready to do anything — everything — for the 
South during the war — fighting, speaking, writing and thinking. 
The Surrender found him at Nassau on some business for the Govern- 
ment, and he came at once to England. But you and Alice put on 
your best bib and tucker, for he will be here directly to spend the 
evening.” 

“Alice, go at once and change your dress,” said Mrs. Bradford, 
sharing her husband’* enthusiasm, “ and look your best. Edward has 
been talking to me about that man ever since we were married.” 

“Certainly,” said Alice, rising; “I am willing to look my best at 
any time — but don’t lay an embargo on either English lord or mag- 
nificent Southerner for me.” 

“I could almost think Alice had had a disappointment in love,” 
said Mrs. Bradford, her eyes following her as she disappeared within 
her room; “she is so indifferent to gentlemen. It would be ridicu- 
lous for such a girl as she is to be an old maid.” 

“ I am mistaken if she has ever met with such a man as Graham,” 
said Colonel Bradford, “ and yet I doubt if his habits have been such 
as to render a woman happy.” 

“0, it will just suit Alice to reform him,” said Mrs. Bradford; “just 
look at the change j^he has wrought in Louis.” 


126 


“old isle and glorious.” 

Ill about half an hour Alice appeared. Occupied with her mental 
progress and discipline, we have not marked the changes they have 
made in her physique. Let us look at her for a moment now. Fresh 
from a bath, her pure skin looks fresher and purer than usual; her 
dark hair is put back from the forehead and wound in a simple knot 
at the back of her graceful head. Her facs is pale, the color never 
coming unless with some cmoiion; the clear, red lips, once too full, 
are now chiselled by thought and trial into perfect beauty. Firm- 
ness and love each sit around the mouth, intermingled at limes by a 
look of suffering, as if some strange note of discord were striving to 
disturb the harmony there. The eyes— large, dark, and expressive — 
vary with each changing mood; now, flashing with entiinsiasm — 
then, softening into love. Her figure is slighter and more fragile- 
looking than when we met her first; of willowy grace, but not 
enough rounded for beauty. The dress of flowing white muslin, 
high in the throat and fastened by a pearl and jet cross, is a fit expo- 
nent of Alice’s taste. Colonel Bradford glanced from the fuller, 
rounded face and figure of his fine-looking wife to Alice as she en- 
tered, exclaiming: 

“Well, Alice, you look as if you might be mated with the King of 
the fairies, or some other shadowy, unsubstantial personage; how- 
ever, Graham is capable of assuming any shape — and there he is 
now,” and stepping quickly to the door he opened it, and Mr. Graham 
stood before them, — a figure, not tall, but impressing you as being so 
by its fine proportions and stateliness of bearing, and a head and face 
that a sculptor or painter might have chosen for a model. 

Never had Alice seen such a forehead — not se lofty, but with such 
intellectual power stamped upon it. Dark, starry eyes looked out 
from beneath the forehead, and a long, flowing, luxuriant chest- 
nut beard completed the picture. Not until afterwards did Alice 
and Mrs. Bradford observe the wondrous charm of the mouth — the 
winning sweetness of a smile which no woman and few men had ever 
resisted. 

The cordial Southern greetings to the exiled fellow-countryman 
and friend of husband and brother were soon given, and a few min- 
utes later Graham was seated near the open window overlooking 
Piccadilly, with Charlie on his knee, the centre of attraction. Rarely 
do we see, even in an assembly of men, two such specimens of noble 
manhood as Edward Bradford and Robert Graham; but a thoughtful 
observer would note a superior moral presence in Colonel Bradford; a 


“old isle and glorious.” 127 

frankness, straightforwardness, and directness of purpose which was 
lacking in the more gifted Graham,” 

“I hear you are going to Leamington,” said Mr. Graham to Mrs. 
Bradford. “I am glad to have been your pioneer there. You will 
find it a delightful place, in a fine vicinity, and with a charming circle 
of Southern people. Hawthorne says that it is the most pleasant 
place in England; he gives it about forty pages in his ‘Old Homes.’” 

“I suppose it must be charming,” said Mrs. Bradford, “so near 
Kenilworth and Stratford-on-Avon; but who are the Southerners 
there? ” 

“Tliere are the Eastburne’s, with their half-dozen pretty daughters 
educated at Dresden,” said Mr. Graham, “and the Courtenays — Vir- 
ginians of the bluest blood — and the Trevelyans. They are now 
travelling on the Continent, but will return in a few months. We 
have a little Southern society within ourselves.” 

“Which I will enjoy more than any other,” said Colonel Bradford. 
“Alice, on the contrary, surrounds herself with spirits and sees in the 
England of to-day Shakspeare and Byron — and who else, Alice? 
Addison, and Bishop Ken, and William of Orange?” 

“A motley assemblage,” said Mr. Graham, laughing; “William of 
Orange is not one of your heroes, is he. Miss Bradford? I would not 
have thought him a favorite with ladies.” 

“ He was certainly a great favorite with one lady,” said Alice smil- 
ing — “his wife— and it was something to fix the affections of a 
Stuart. Yes, I do admire William of Orange. I admire his strength 
and stability of character and the comprehensiveness of his political 
views, — though I do not think him at all equal to his great ancestor, 
William the Silent. He was a beacon-light in his age.” 

“I would have thought that William the Silent married too often 
to please you ladies,” said Mr. Graham; “how often was it — three or 
four times?” 

“Yes — four times,” said Alice, flushing a little, “but I had rather 
bo the second wife of such a man than the first wife of most men.” 

“Such an acknowledgement!” said Mrs. Bradford, lifting her 
hands. “Alice, you are getting to be so superior to the prejudices of 
your sex that I am afraid you will turn out to be a strong-minded 
woman.” 

“Miss Bradford understands our sex,” said Mr. Graham, “she knows 
that we need a living woman’s care and love all through life.” 

“You are some time in getting a ‘living woman’ to take care of 


128 


“old isle and GLOfilOUS.” 

you,” said Colonel Bradford; “practice is better than precept, my 
dear fellow.” 

“ The war threw me back in the march of civilization,” said Mr. 
Graham smiling, “perhaps you may see what I will do now.’;* 

And thus talking of a hundred matters — sometimes seriously — 
sometimes lightly — the evening passed. Graham soon put Charlie 
from his knee — evidently to Charlie’s surprise — and took a seat be- 
side Alice. “A new character,” he thought; “I like to see the play 
of her face as she talks.” 

“You will go with us to St. Paul’s to-morrow?” said Colonel Brad- 
ford as his friend rose to take leave. 

“Certainly; and to Westminster the next day, or anywhere else 
you please. 1 am a man of leisure at present. I congratulate you 
on your happiness, my friend,” he said, as they descended the stairs 
together; “you have a charming family.” 

“I would like to see you in the same position,” said Colonel Brad- 
ford. 

“Well, perhaps you will,” said Mr, Graham, pausing at the foot of 
the steps; “I am engaged to be married.” 

“You are, indeed — engaged — to whom? I congratulate you,” said 
Colonel Bradford. 

“To Miss Trevelyan, the young lady of whose family you heard 
me speak to-night, now travelling on the Continent. She is a beau- 
tiful girl, unsophisticated and affectionate as a child. I won her from 
quite a bevy of Southerners in Leamington this summer. But you 
will see her and judge for yourself. Good-night.” 

“ Well, Alice,” said Colonel Bradford as he re-entered the parlor, 
“if any visions of splendid eyes and oourtly grace are floating through 
your brain, scotch them in the bud, for Graham is engaged.” 

“Is he?” interrupted Mrs. Bradford, in a disappointed tone; “I 
was just thinking h« was the only man I ever saw who would do for 
Alice.” 

“Ah, it is you then who have the day-dreams to give up,” said Col- 
onel Bradford, throwing his head into his wife’s lap and his legs 
across two chairs; “my little Alice bears the loss of so magnificent a 
beau with her usual equaniKiity.” 

“ Since Sister was forming such plans for me, I am really glad to 
hear that he is engaged,” said Alice, “for now I can be at my ease 
with him.” 

It was nearly eleven o’clock the next morning before Mr. Graham 


“old isle AilD GLORIOUS.” 129 

made his appearance at St. James’s, and our party were just setting 
off without him. 

“Excuse me!” he exclaimed, as he came hastily up, “I slept late.” 

“Ah! your old habits,” interrupted Colonel Bradford; “you’ll have 
to give them up, my dear fellow.” 

On their way to St. Paul’s they passed by a monument erected to 
the memory of the soldiers who had fallen in the Crimean war. “To 
the Unknown” were the first words they saw. The tears sprang to 
Alice’s eyes: “Whom ignorantly ye honor we declare unto you,” said 
she, as the battle-fields of the South rose before her memory. 

“A beautiful application,” said Mr. Graham, meeting her eye with 
quick sympathy; “we did not expect to find a monument to fallen 
and unknown Southern heroes in the centre of London — nor have 
we; it is created there by the heart of a Southern woman.” 

The services had commenced before they reached St. Paul’s; a large 
congregation had assembled. Our party could not get near the 
preacher, but it was something to look up at that grand dome and 
feel that they were in St. Paul’s. Many memories rushed over Alice 
as she knelt in prayer; memories of the history conneQted with the 
great Temple — of the ashes around — but she strove to be calm and 
fix her thoughts on Him who “only is great.” 

In leaving the church they glanced for a moment at the monu- 
ments to John Howard, Hallam, and Lord Melbourne. “ ‘Through 
the gate of death we pass to o'ur joyful resurrection,’ ” repeated Mr. 
Graham, as they paused before the gate which formed the device of 
Lord Melbourne’s tomb. 

“That is beautiful,” said he, “and the words are still more so. 
Macaulay says truly the Book of Common Prayer is a model of 
“ chaste, lofty, and pathetic eloquence.” 

“ That would be a fine compliment for a mere book,” said Alice, 
“ but the prayer-book is so much more than that.” 

“ I fear that I don’t know it in a better sense,” said Mr. Graham, 
“ and it would be sweet to have such a teacher as you,” rose in his 
thoughts as he looked at Alice’s earnest, spiritual face; but the image 
of his fair young betrothed rose before him and checked the thought. 
At the same moment there sprang up in Alice’s heart a yearning de- 
sire to do him good — to teach him the spiritual meaning of the 
prayer-book. 

“So grand and gifted,” she thought, “how sad that he is not a 
Christian. I would intrude on no province that belongs to his be- 


130 “old isle aud glorious.” 

trothed, but as I have opportunity I must — I ought to try and do 
him good.” 

And as she turned to give a parting glance at St. Paul’s, again 
Graham’s eye rested on her face and those words of Tennyson came 
into his mind: — 

‘•No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In angel instiucia, breathing Paradise, 

Interpreter between the Gods and men, 

Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
On tipioe seemed to touch up^n a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved, 

And girdled her with music.” 

The next day they went to Westminster Abbey, entering at “Poet’s 
Corner.” Mr. Graham had been there before, and he was somewhat 
amused, and no less interested, to observe that Alice involuntarily 
lowered her voice as soon as she entered. Worn man of the world, 
there was something inexpressibly fresh and invigorating in Alice’s 
changing face and manner as she turned from statue to bust, and 
from bust to inscription. 

“ How interesting it is that these giants among men should have 
written their own epitaphs,” said Colonel Bradford as they stopped 
before the statue of Shakspeare, “and the more so because they did 
it unconsciously.” 

“Yes, we are all writing our epitaphs,” said Alice, “simple, as well 
as great.” 

. “ Campbell — beautiful ! ” exclaimed Colonel Bradford, passing on — 
“ and the inscription is from my favorite poem : — 

‘Thi* spirit shall return to Him 
Who gave its hravenly spark; 

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
When thou thyself art ilarkl 
No! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of ttiiae. 

By Him recall’d to breath 
Who captive led paptivity. 

Who robb’d the grave of victory, — 

And took the sting from Deathl’ ’’ 

“Those great spirits lived before it became fashionable to doubt the 
immortality of the soul,” said Mr. Graham. 

“‘0 rare Ben Jonson!’” exclaimed Colonel Bradford. “But you 
won’t like this, Alice: — 

‘ Life’s a jest and all things show it, 

I thought so once and now I know it,’ 

Kate, are you so much absorbed with that living cherub as to be in- 
capable of seeing anything sepulchral?” 

“ He quite wears me out,” said Mrs. Bradford, complainingly, “ want- 
ing to climb up on the statues and play ball in Westminster Abbey!” 


“old isle and glokious.” 131 

“You and Alice go on, Graham,” said the Colonel, “I must accom- 
modate myself to this young hopeful’s nature and capacities.” 

“There is nothing,” said Mr. Graham, as he led the way through 
the Abbey, “that I am so often reminded of since I came to England 
as ‘ Gray’s Elegy ;’ ‘ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, the boast 
of heraldry and pomp of power,’ and the inevitable end meet you at 
every turn. And in the many beautiful old country church-yards 
you are as often reminded of ‘the short and simple annals of the 
poor.’ Truly, a nation’s history is in that poem. Miss Bradford, 
here is something interesting to us,” — and he paused before the tomb 
of Andre. 

“Is it possible?” said Alice, as she read the inscription, “I did not 
know that his ashes rested here.” 

“It was a kingly act of George III,” said Mr. Graham, “and one 
best calculated to soothe English hearts. But the death over which 
Washington wept seems of little account to us now.” 

“Yes,”* said Alice, as visions of her country’s past and of its present 
rose before her mind. “ 0, the mutability of earthly things ! Does it 
not make you long for something, that does not change, Mr. Graham?” 

Graham did not reply; a troubled look came into his face, which 
he dismissed as with an effort, and they passed on. 

“Let us keep as far as possible from the guide,” said he; “I cannot 
bear his stereotyped phrases, cut and dried for the occasion and re- 
peated to a score of visitors daily.” 

“Poor fellow! I should think it would be hard on him,” said Alice, 
laughing, “ and to some of the visitors — the one, for instance, who 
said that ‘Poets’ Corner’ was a ‘nice’ place, his information may lore 
indeed.” 

They now entered the chapel of Henry VII. 

“Gray must have had this spot in view when he wrote the 
‘Elegy,’” said Mr. Graham. “See those ‘mouldering banners,’ Miss 
Bradford, and yonder is the monument of the royal pair, Henry and 
Elizabeth, which Lord Bacon said is ‘ one of the stateliest and daintiest 
in Europe.’ ‘ The paths of glory lead but to the grave.’ ” 

“Gray might have improved his beautiful poem if he had put a 
little of the Bible in it,” said Alice. “Did you never notice that 
Shakspeare’s greatest thoughts are from the Bible? The uppermost 
thought in a place like this, I think should be: ‘The world passeth 
away and the glory thereof, but he that doeth the will of God abideth 
forever.’ ” 


132 


OLD ISLE AND GLORIOUS. 


u 


“A striking contrast,” said Mr. Graham, “between the fleeting na-. 
ture of the glory of the world and him, be he prince or peasant, who 
doeth the will of God. And this is the place for striking contrasts. 
Here, kings come with pride and pomp and lordly array, to be 
crowned; and here, kings come 

‘ With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,’ 

to be laid in dust. Andre’s bones were brought from a dishonored 
grave and laid here, and from here, alter their gorgeous interment, 
Cromwell’s were taken to be hanged at Tyburn. And this chapel, 
the gem of the whole, was given from the avarice of Henry to make 
peace with heaven. You remember the lines. Miss Bradford — 

• Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear. 

’Twill trickle to his lival'a bier,’ ” 

“Yes,” said Alice, “and all this makes me think only the more of 
that which is above all chance and change; may I repeat it to you? 

“‘And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty, and 
the Lamb, are the temple of it. 

“ ‘And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to 
shine in it; for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the 
light thereof. 

“ ‘And the nations of them which are saved shall walk in the light 
of it; and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour 
into it.’ ” Here Alice paused. 

“ Go on,” said Graham. 

“‘And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day: for there 
shall be no night there. 

“ ‘And they shall bring the glory and honour of the nations into it. 

“‘And there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that deflleth, 
neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie: but they 
which are written in the Lamb’s book of life.’ ” 

“And who are they?” asked Graham. 

“They who do the will of God,” replied Alice. 

“With you to help me, I might do it,” thought Graham, “but” — 

Never did that day in Westminster Abbey fade from Alice’s mem- 
ory. Rich in thought and feeling, rich in storied memories of the 
past and in hopes of the future beyond this life; rich in the intellec- 
tual sympathy of her gifted companion— it was a day to be marked 
amid the yearnings of life. What it was to him she knew not, but 
as she lay her head on her pillow that night there was a satisfled feel- 
ing — a glow — a fullness and richness of content to which she was a 


OLD ISLE and glorious. 


133 


stranger in earthly sympathies. “Surely,” she thought, almost with 
alarm, “I am not finding a sympathy in Mr. Grraham — the betrothed 
of another — that I never found in But it was so. The troubles 

between herself and Albert Vaughan had commenced so early, there 
was no time for the development of the sweet buds of sympathy and 
congeniality between them. They had been repressed and chilled by 
the biting frosts of self-restraint and fear, and hope long, long de- 
fei red. Alice did not like it, but there was no help for it. She knew 
not till afterwards how nearly her own heart and mind — as nearly as 
woman’s can be to man’s — were formed by nature a counterpart of 
Robert Graham’s. She turned her thoughts to his betrothed, hoping 
that she was worthy of him; that she would aid him in the “high 
endeavor,” and rejoice with him in the “glad success,” — and fell asleep. 

Colonel Bradford wrote the next day engaging lodgings in Leam- 
ington. “We will visit London again,” said he, “and see all the 
wonders; now I want to see Southern faces and hear Southern 
tongues.” 

“ Very well,” said Mrs. Bradford, “ but you will see no handsomer 
Southern face, nor hear no more gifted Southern tongue than Mr. 
Graham’s.” 

“Graham of course returns with us,” said Colonel Bradford, “or 
I would not go;” he glanced at Alice, at the other end of the room 
with Charlie, and added, “ Kate, I cannot help feeling as if it is a pity 
that Graham is engaged. ,Did you notice him and Alice in West- 
minster Abbey? They looked made for each other.” 

“ I hope it isn’t wrong,” said Mrs. Bradford, “ but I can’t help wish- 
ing that Miss Trevelyan will meet with somebody she likes better 
than Mr. Graham on the Continent; a forlorn hope, however, for who 
will she see as splendid as her betrothed? ” 

“ We must be careful not to hint such a thing to Alice,” said Col- 
onel Bradford, “ in fact it ought not to be thought of at all.” 

“ I don’t fear for Alice,” said his wife; “if she hadn’t the most un- 
susceptible heart in the world she never would have resisted all those 
dear Southern boys in the hospitals. The looks that I have seen di- 
rected at her! which might as well have been directed at the white- 
washed walls for the good they did. She feels Louis’s devotion more 
than anything else, but that is only pity and sympathy for Louis — 
she has no idea of marrying him.” 

“I do not understand her,” said Colonel Bradford; “she is not, I 
am sure, naturally so unimpressible — quite the reverse. But she has 


134 


LEAMINGTON. 


changed much since her thoughts turned to religion. She is perhaps 
somewhat inclined to mysticism, and the best remedy for that would 
be a happy marriage.” 

On Wednesday Colonel Bradford engaged the services of an Eng- 
lish girl, who had lived in Paris, and who could speak French nearly 
as well as English, as nurse for Charlie; and on Thursday the whole 
party left London for Leamington. Colonel Bradford had engaged a 
charming, ready-furnished house on Portland street, recommended by 
Mr. Graham, and our exiled family were soon domiciled in that best 
substitute for home, English lodgings. Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, thrifty, 
respectable people, to whom the house belonged, with their daughter 
occupied the basement, and let the upper part of the house to Col- 
onel Bradford. 

‘‘ There is more room than we want,” said Mrs. Bradford as she, the 
Colonel, Alice, Mr. Graham, and Charlie finished a survey of the 
house, “ but it is so charming I would not be willing to give it up.” 

“Let me suggest an idea,” said Mr. Graham, “as economy is the 
order of the day for Southerners now. Allow me to give up my 
room, and come and take your spare apartment. It will be much 
more agreeable than living with a gentleman’s mess.” 

“Certainly,” said Colonel Bradford, “we will be delighted to have 
you.” 

“And it is time that you were getting accustomed to ladies' mess,” 
said Mrs. Bradford, archly. 

Alice said nothing, but she felt an instinct against it. 


CHAPTER III. 

LEAMINGTON. 

This lovely town, situated in Wtarwickshire, near the centre of 
England and in the vicinity of Warwick Castle, Kenilworth, Guy’s 
Cliff, and Stratford-on-Avon, had been a favorite resort of Southern- 
ers during the war. Here, some of the best Southern families, with 
husbands or sons in the fearful war raging in the United States, had 
awaited the issue of events. When the blow came that put an end 


LEAMINGTON. 


185 


to the hopes of the South, some of them had returned to America; 
others still lingered, undecided what to do; while others, as in the 
case of the Bradfords, came hither for a breathing-spell of rest and 
quiet after the turmoils of war. The charming family of Eastburnes 
from South Carolina, whose eldest son, a gallant Confederate soldier, 
slill lingered in the South looking after his hither’s fallen fortunes, 
was here. Also a remnant of the noble family of Courtenays, from 
Virginia; Mrs. Custis and child; a Southern woman married to a 
Northern man with Southern principles; one or two officers of the 
Alabama; and Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, with his mother and beautiful 
sister, from North Carolina, now at Baden Baden. 

The Southerners in Leamington — some of whom they had met be- 
fore — called immediately on the Bradfords, giving them a warm wel- 
come. 

“I will bring Mr. Walker — our minister — to see you,” said Mrs. 
Courtenay to Mrs. Bradford; “he is an excellent and delightful man, 
more Southern than English — but he has a brother living in Nor- 
folk whom he has visited. His daughter too is a very intelligent and 
lady-like girl, but with more of the English reserve than her father.” 

“She hasn’t had the advantage of going to Virginia, I suppose,” 
said Colonel Bradford, smiling. 

“No,” said Mrs. Courtenay, quite seriously, “you needn’t laugh. 
Colonel Bradford; there are no people in the world like old Virginia 
people. And there is the Hon. Miss Hamilton, she will come and see 
you. You remember her book on America,^ and her partiality to the 
South and defence of slavery? She lost her place of Maid of Honor 
to the Queen for publishing her views on slavery, — dismissed by the 
Government for that high misdemeanor. She is a woman of remark- 
able strength of mind and clearness of vision, as you may know.” 

“ I would really like to meet with some English people,” said Mrs. 
Bradford; “my husband has been telling me that I won’t have that 
opportunity.” 

“Only a few,” said Mrs. Courtenay, “but if life was long enough 
and you had time to stay here fifty years, you would find them most 
worthy people.” 

“From what I have read in English books, especially about literary 
people,” said Alice, “ I should think English society the most perfect 
in the world.” 

“Yes, it is not here as with us that the young people take the lead 
in society,” said Mrs. Courtenay; “it is the land for old people — the 


136 


LEAMINGTON. 


older you get the more consequence you have. But, my dear child, 
you will have no opportunity of judging of the society here.” 

“I suppose if I was Mrs. Stowe or Fred. Douglass it wculd be dif- 
ferent,” said Alice, laughing; “but I will be content with a sample 
of the Church in Mr. Walker and of the aristocracy in Miss Hamil- 
ton— and if I could only sec Bulwer and Tennyson I would be satis- 
fied.” 

“Well, you can visit the grand old homes of England at any rate — 
the English aristocracy are very kind and generous about that,” said 
Mrs. Courtenay, rising to depart. “ How pleasant it is, Mrs. Brad- 
ford, to have Mr. Graham with you; he is the most intellectual man 
I know, and engaged to the Rose of Carolina — so take care of your 
heart. Miss Alice,” and Mrs. Courtenay bowed herself out of the 
room. 

The second night of the Bradfords’ sojourn at Leamington found 
Mr. Graham an inmate of their dwelling. And now, at the table — 

‘‘Across the walnuts and th«* wine ” — 

over the green fields and meadows to Guy’s Cliff, along the banks of 
the Learn and in Jephson’s gardens, in rides to Kenilworth and in 
drives to Stratford, in skimming the Avon with its fairy-like boats, 
and in excursion parties, Mr. Graham was Alice’s constant compan- 
ion. And what a companion he was! The storied ruins of Kenil- 
worth arose like the magnificent castle of the days of Leicester and 
Queen Elizabeth beneath the wand of his gifted imagination. The 
Church and home of Shakspeare shone with a lovelier light when he 
was present. The grand old castle of W arwick again resounded with 
the words and deeds of the King-maker, and Sir Piers Gaveston, 
adorned with jewels, passed from his midnight trial to his execution 
on Blacklow-hill. The Bradfords were often accompanied by other 
Southerners, but wherever Alice was — with whomsoever she started — 
she invariably ended by becoming Graham’s companion. And so 
nearly alike were their minds, so complete the intellectual sympathy 
between them, that even when Alice was in conversation with other 
gentlemen she felt instinctively that Graham alone fully understood 
her. And then at night when they returned from their manifold 
wanderings, it was delightful to Alice to listen to her brother and 
Mr. Graham, as they talked over their cigars of politics — the South — 
England — their college-days — and a hundred other things. And in 
these conversations she never failed to note that although Graham’s 
was the more gifted, comprehensive, and cultivated mind of the two, 


LEAMINGTON. 


187 


her brother wns the superior in directness of thoughts and clear 
moral ring. And not less interesting was it to Colonel Bradford to 
hear Grraham and Alice in their various discussions of literature — 
art — ^^morals — religion— philosophy. They rarely differed, and when 
they did, they generally talked till they agreed. 

Mrs. Courtenay, according to promise, in a short time brought Mr. 
Walker and daughter to call on the Bradfords. The former was a 
fine specimen of the clergy of the Church of England. In early life 
he had been a hard-working curate, and mixing much with all classes 
of people, ranging from the upper through the various degrees of the 
middle classes down to the lower and the lowest, he had improved by 
observation what he had in an uncommon degree by nature, — a deep 
knowledge of human nature. Owing to this, and to extensive travel, 
he possessed, in a much higher degree than is common to our insu- 
lated cousins of the British Isles, the power of adapting himself to 
those around him. 

His daughter, a fine-looking, dark-eyed girl, was a few years older 
than Alice; but owing to the English complexion and greater sim- 
plicity of dress — to say nothing of having been kept back longer — 
appeared to be younger. Her face indicated uncommon intelligence 
and thoughtfulness, but her manner was of the usual type of Eng- 
lish reserve, — a warm, enthusiastic heart and temper being entirely 
concealed beneath a cold exterior. “Clever — cultivated,” thought 
Alice, as her eye rested on the well-bred face, “but lacks heart.” 
Thus we judge each other in the world. 

Mr. Walker was immediately attracted by the frank courtesy of 
our Southerners, and his daughter at once charmed with Alice. The 
quick, spontaneous expression which Alice gave to her thoughts, her 
ready sympathy mental and emotional with others, added to her win- 
ning softness of manner, were alike new and delightful to Helen 
AValker. 

“Charming!” she thought; “I never knew any one to talk so — so 
un-English — she is like an Italian — and has the rich imagination of 
the East. And here am I, with all this fire within me, like an icicle.” 

But Alice saw no sign of this; the crust of reserve which had been 
hardening for years could not be broken in one interview. 

“How far is it to Burleigh House? ” asked Colonel Bradford of 
Mr. Walker; “my wife has a great admiration for Tennyson’s ‘Lord 
of Burleigh.’ and wishes to see the home of the fair peasant Count- 


138 


BURLEIGH HOUSE. 


“You can make the trip in a day,” replied Mr. Walker, “and I 
will take pleasure in accompanying you therein.” 

“Thank you,” said the Colonel and Mrs. Bradford in a breath. 

“That will be so pleasant,” said Alice, who looked with special in- 
terest on a clergyman of the Mother Church. “Will you not go 
also?” she said to Miss Walker., 

“With pleasure,” said Miss Walker, with more animation than she 
had yet shown. 

“Well, there is no reason for delay,” said Colonel Bradford; “we 
are here for just such purposes, and if it suits you we will go to-mor- 
row.” 

Mr. Graham, who was in his room writing letters when the 
Walkers called, now entered and expressed his pleasure on hearing 
of the party, and it was agreed that they should meet at the station 
the next morning, and thence proceed to Burleigh House. 


CHAPTER IV. 

BURLEIGH HOUSE. 

Early the next morning our party, leaving Charlie with Maggie 
Ray, his new nurse, who being white and dressed very neatly he im- 
agined a fine lady and had quite fallen in love with her — walked down 
to the station where they found the Walkers awaiting them. 

In a little time they were seated in one of the large, comfortable, 
cosy, family-carriage-like, English rail-way coaches, and flying through 
the cultivated, garden-like country towards Burleigh. Mr. Walker, 
a thorough Englishman in his devotion to his native land, made the 
way delightful by his knowledge of the country through which they 
were passing. Even the courtly and cultivated Graham was for a 
time eclipsed iis Mr. Walker pointed out castle and villa — village and 
church, relating some history or incident connected with each of them. 

“0, how this reminds me of the disguised Earl and his bride!” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Bradford. 

‘They by parks and lodges going 
See the lordly castles stand; 

Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land.’ ” 


BURLEIGH HOUSE. 139 

“These American!” thought Miss Walker, “I believe they say 
everything that comes into their heads.” 

“Do you believe in the story of the peasant Countess?” said Mr. 
Graham, smiling. 

“0 yes!” said Mrs. Bradford, “but it seems to me if he had been 
some husbands” — with a glance towards her own lord — “she would 
n‘)t have pined beneath ‘the burden of an honor unto which she was 
not born.’ ” 

“A singular cause of death, certainly,” said Mr. Graham; “the 
English poet differs from the English novelist in his estimation of 
your sex. Not one of Thackeray’s heroines dies from the weight of 
a coronet.” 

“Nevertheless, it is true in this case,” said Mr. Walker; “if I err 
not, Tennyson’s ‘Lord of Burleigh’ was the father of the present 
Marquis of Exeter.” 

“Tennyson has made a beautiful poem of it,” said Alice, “but 
gentle and lovely as was the peasant bride, I think she would have 
shown a more spiritual nature if she had been less susceptible to the 
splendors of rank and wealth. And what were they compared to the 
grace and culture of her living lord? I think that I would simply 
have risen to the dignity of the position,” she added, smiling. 

“You,” exclaimed Colonel Bradford, “yes, you dreamy fairy would 
hardly have found out that it teas splendid. The farmer’s daughter 
hadn’t lived in an atmosphere of Arabian Nights all her life. You, 
Alice! you would have looked upon it as quite a matter of course 
following in the train of your enchanted lover.” 

“As the captive wife brought before Cyrus,” said Alice, “saw noth- 
ing but the devoted husband who was ready to lay down his life for 
her.” 

At this instant Alice caught Mr. Graham’s eye — he sat opposite to 
her, a seat he always took when he could — and was startled by the 
fixed intensity of its expression. The difference between this look 
and the ever-commanding but varying expression of his eye, was that 
of the sheet-lightning as it plays harmlessly over the face of the sky 
and the vivid flash which precedes Heaven’s loudest artillery. A 
thrill passed through Alice — that look — what did it mean? Her eyes 
drooped for a moment and when she raised them again the look was 
gone, and Graham’s clear, melodious voice was repeating — 

“ Now a gateway we diacern. 

With armorial bearings stately.” 

“And, 0, Alice!” exclaimed Mrs. Bradford, grasping her arm as a 


140 


BURLEIGH-HOUSE. 


servant in livery made his appearance at the lodge, “yonder is a ‘gal- 
lant, gay domestic;’ I shall quite expect to see the peasant Countess.” 

Alice did not reply; she was revolving in her mind what that look 
ot* Mr. Graham’s could mean. “Did he mean it for me? 0 no! he 
is — he must be an honorable man. It was only some intense thought 
that was occupying his mind, and he looked at me unconsciously. I 
will think no more of it.” 

Quick as the lightning-flash of Graham’s eye these thoughts passed 
through Alice’s brain, and the carriage — which they had taken at the 
last station — now stopped in front of the “majestic mansion” — with 
its beautiful parks and long, stately avenues of chestnut trees — built 
Mr. Walker said by “Burleigh’s wit and Elizabeth’s money. ' 

Entering the great hall, the attention of our party was immedi- 
ately caught by the full-length portrait of Prince Albeit, taken in 
early manhood; a beautiful picture of the pure and uncorru])ted 
youth of him who goes down to posterity as “Albert the Good.” 

“His history is written in the few simple words of Holy Writ,” 
said Mr. Walker, ‘And he did that which was right in the sight of 
the Lord.’” 

“ I have felt what a relief it was to come to those words in the sad 
record of the Jewish kings,” said Alice; “how much more frequently 
it is vsaid, ‘And he did that which was evil in the sight of the Lord 
according unto all that his father had done.’” 

Onward they passed from stately to statelier chamber, the full-size 
ligures of the frescoed walls seeming to start to life around them, 
through the tinselled and gilded bed-rooms in which royalty had 
slept — or waked,— beholding from a window the tree which Queen 
Elizabeth had planted — until they reached the room in which the 
sweet, fair, lovely — yet deprecating face — of the peasant Countess 
looked at them from the wall. 

“She looks as if apologizing for being here amid the honors ‘to 
which she was not born,’” said Mr. Graham, “but her lord looks on 
her with protecting benignity.” 

“How very lovely!” said Alice and Mrs. Bradford in a breath, the 
latter moving unconciously nearer her husband as she contemplated 
the picture. 

“It saddens me to look at it,” said Miss Walker, who had taken 
little part in the conversation; “it may be taken as a pretty and poet- 
ical exponent of our English view of the evils attending unequal 
marriages. You are not so exclusive in your cou ntry. Miss Bradford ?” 


BURLEIGH HOUSE. 


141 


“No,” replied Alice, “though some of us think more seriously of 
it there than you would suppose in a Republic.” 

“ ‘There is no disparity like unsuitability of mind and purpose,’ ” 
interrupted Mr. Grraham, in a low voice. 

“ I never saw anything like these figures,” said Mrs. Bradford as 
they moved on, “they seem to be starting from the very walls to 
meet us.” 

“See there!” said Mr. Walker, pointing to a fair female figure far 
above them in the ceiling, surrounded by darkness; “there is a story 
that she was a serving-maid in Burleigh House, who was placed in 
Hades by the artist in revenge, because he could not win her love, or 
corrupt her virtue.” 

“ Where she shines as an angel of light,” said Colonel Bradford, 
“the artist was doing a greater work than he knew. Tennyson 
should immortalize that too.” 

Passing on, they reached the door of a small cabinet appropriated 
to relics of Queen Elizabeth — above the mantel hung a picture. 
Alice — over whose mind still lingered the shadow of that look of 
lurid lightning — lifted her eyes carelessly to it; but in a moment she 
was transfixed. The picture was an original, by Carlo Dolce, of 
“Christ Blessing the Elements.” All the superhuman beauty and 
sweetness of the face in a moment took possession of her soul — the 
tears started from her eyes — and Miss Walker, who stood by her side, 
lifted her hand and pressed it to her lips. Alice saw the brilliant 
Hash of the girl’s eyes and felt a momentary surprise at her action, 
and then her attention turned again to the marvellous picture. 

“ Brought from Italy by the fifth Marquis of Exeter,” said the 
guide, but one of the party at least paid little attention to what was 
said. Alice could not then, and was never able afterwards, to analyze 
the cause of her emotion. She only knew that one of those mo- 
ments had come in life — startling and unexpected — which make 
eras. Like love at first sight, or — 

“ Like looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart. 

As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it through life had sought.*' 

A lice felt now that* she knew the Power of Painting. She heard 
Helen Walker’s low, sweet English tones and Mr. Graham’s clear, 
soft Southern voice discussing other articles of interest in the room, 
but gave no heed. What to her were relics of royalty in the pres- 
ence of that wondrous picture with all its train of awakened thought 


142 


KENILWORTH. 


and sensibility ? She could not leave it; she strove once or twice to do 
so at the call of some member of the party, but yearningly turned to 
it again. It comforted her to think that she would see the Divine 
Or-iginal above. “ Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty,” came 
to her now with a force never felt before, and with one long, linger- 
ing look she tore herself away — never till she entered the courts 
above and saw the “Chief among ten thousand,” to forget the picture 
at Burleigh House. 


CHAPTER V. 

KENILWORTH. 

Warwick Castle — Stratford-on-Avon — Kenilworth — what dreams 
of romance are now realized in Alice’s life! Every day there was a 
drive, ride, or walk, as the weather might be, to one place or the 
other, diversified occasionally by a walk to Guy’s Clifi*, or a drive 
through the beautiful park of Stoneleigh Abbey, with its majestic 
oaks. Then they would go over Coventry and catch a glimpse 
of “Peeping Tom” and repeat Tennyson’s beautiful poem; or gratify 
Mrs. Bradford’s more practical taste by a visit to a ribbon factory. 

They never wearied of visiting Warwick Castle. From the weird 
woman at the lodge, with her relics of the renowned Guy of War- 
wick, through the shaded entrance of stone and evergreen to the fine 
old castle with its massive towers, green court and clinging ivy; and 
grand hall with tesselated fioor and statues of full-size armor ranged 
around, to the great fire-place with its logs of wood, “almost as 
large,” Colonel Bradford said, “as those used nightly by the negroes 
of the South before the war;” and around which you might fancy 
you heard the jest and roar of by-gone ages. And, above all, the 
beautiful equestrian painting of Charles I, by Vandyke, looking life- 
size beyond the shadowy corridor through which it was seen — such a 
picture of young, glorious manhood! 

“You bring with you,” said Mr. Graham to Alice one day as they 
stood looking through a window of Warwick Castle at the “Cedar of 
Lebanon,” “ that which throws a glory over everything — an imagina- 


KENILWOKTH. 


143 


iivp mind and exquisite taste, and,” be added with a sigh, “a heart 
and conscience at peace. Few look at the wonders of the old world 
through such a medium.” There was a plaintive minor tone in his 
last Nvords which made Alice turn quickly to him. 

But all may do so,” she said; “you understand human nature and 
life too well, Mr. Glraham, to think that I have attained, even what I 
have, without discipline and effort; and all may submit to the dis- 
cipline and make the effort.” Mr. Graham shook his head but said 
nothing. 

Not only was Alice’s taste for the classic and beautiful gratified by 
the excursions around Leamington, but in Graham’s gifted and culti- 
vated mind the same atmosphere surrounded her at home. And never 
before had her every wish been so fully carried out. If she wished 
for a book, it appeared; the rarest and most exquisite flowers wei’e 
found in the parlor; the latest and best music on the piano. 

Alice grew bewildered; since that look in the railway carriage and 
those few, low words concerning marriage from Mr. Graham at Bur- 
leigh House, her instinct had warned her that there was danger in in- 
tercourse with him. She could not — she did not think that she ought 
to give up her yearning desire to save his soul — to elevate him to the 
exercise of all the wondrous capabilities of his gifted nature. And 
there was nothing palpable — tangible — in the atmosphere of intellec- 
tual pleasure, and quick, thoughtful, far-seeing care that enveloped 
her. Only it was to be traced to Graham, for it had never been the 
case before, — until with a start Alice awoke to the fear that the cit- 
adel of her heart was assailed and might — who could say ? — give way 
before this slow, subtle, pervading, undermining, yet seemingly un- 
conscious force. What could she do? 0 now, how she yearned for 
the safeguard of an avowed betrothal to be throwm around her; that 
unspoken love — how could it help her? “0, if he would stretch out 
his arms to me,” she thought, “how would I flee to him across the 
Atlantic.” 

But no shielding, protecting arms were outstretched to her. Far 
away on the banks of the blue Potomac a calm, solitary figure rose be- 
fore her imagination, wrapped in self-communings, studying great 
problems, around the granite of whose unyielding will and purpose 
seas might lash and howl in vain — all unmindful that she was tem- 
pest-tossed and might — 0 might be shipwrecked ! 

“Kenilworth to-day!” exclaimed Colonel Bradford, entering the 
parlor one morning, and the ladies, already equipped in riding-habits. 


144 


KENILWORTH. 


were ready in a few minutes. Alice was a graceful rider, and Mr. 
Graham a fine horseman. A more interesting couple would rarely 
be seen as they cantered over the smooth, beautiful roads to Kenil- 
worth, followed at a little distance by Colonel and Mrs. Bradford. 
As they approached the ruins of the grand old castle they slackened 
their pace, the mind of each busy with the associations the scene 
brought up. Graham lifted his hat and the breeze blew back the 
dark, curling locks, slightly tinged with gray, from the noble, thought- 
ful brow. 

“How enduring are the creations of genius,” said he, turning his 
radiant eyes on Alice; “how much more vividly is Scott’s romance 
of Kenilworth impressed on my mind than its real history. 1 can 
scarcely separate the truth from the fiction.” 

“And I can’t do it at all,” said Alice; “in fact I know little of the 
history. Since we left Leamington my mind has been peopled with 
the gorgeous pageant that attended Queen Elizabeth here. The 
^ surging crowd — Flibertigibbet — the giant — poor Amy and her attend- 
ant — the knightly Tressilian — the courtly, but weak and conscience- 
stricken Leicester — the villain Varney — and Elizabeth herself — all 
rise before me.” 

“And the gay and gifted Raleigh, and Shakspeare, ‘the Immortal 
bending before the mortal,’” said Mr. Graham, “all gone now, ‘nor 
left a rack behind.’ ” 

Uismountiug from their horses and passing the inevitable English 
lodge at the gate, they now stood within the inner court, the ivy- 
mantled ruin with its three towers and delicate tracing of the arched 
windows, through whieli the sunlight poured, before them. 

“This reminds me of Scott’s description of Melrose Abbey,” said 
Colonel Bradford, ])ointing to the broken windows — 

“ ‘The moon on the east oriel shone, 

Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 

By foliaged tracery combined; 

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand, 

'Twixt poplars straight, the osier waud. 

In many a ireakish knot, had twined; 

Then framed s spell, when the work was done. 

And turned the willow- wreath* to stone.’ ” 

“ To me,” said Mr. Graham, 

“ ‘There is given. 

Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 

A spirit’s feeling; and where he hath lent 
Uis hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin’d battlement. 

For which the palace of the present hour 

Must yield it* pomp, and wait till ages are ita dower.’ ” 

“ I do not know that I have any poetry ready for the occasion,” 


KENILWORTH. 


145 


said Alice, smiling, “but one might iinagme that it was on such a 
morning as this that the Court assembled here for the hunt so vividly 
de^ribed by Scott. Scattered far around is the royal assemblage; 
there stands the gratified Leicester, his proudest hopes apparently on 
the point of being realized — when from yonder copse appears the 
(jueen dragging the lovely and half-dying Amy, and demanding in a 
voice that strikes more terror than Heaven’s loudest artillery, ‘Know- 
est thou this woman?”’ 

“And from yonder tower,” _said Mrs. Bradford, “poor Amy, a cap- 
tive, looked down on the glittering scene of which she was rightly 
mistress.” 

With such conversation they beguiled the fleeting hours — mount- 
ing the fine ruins — going up the worn, stone steps which so many 
thousands of light and weary feet had ascended in ages gone by, and 
looking from the narrow window through which how many eager 
eyes! lovers’ eyes — the eyes of captives — ai^d stern soldiers’ eyes had 
looked. Alice, aided by Mr. Graham, ascended the highest ruin, from 
which there was a fine view of the surrounding country. She glanced 
away at the beautiful landscape— on the ruins around — and on the 
noble-looking man standing a little below her. Words which she 
had read somewhere long go suddenly occurred to her: “The human 
soul in its natural state is at best a fine ruin,” as she looked from 
Kenilworth to Mr. Graham. 

“What is it?” he .said quickly, “What is that thought, Miss 
Alice?” 

Alice blushed, but in a low voice repeated the words. 

“A fine ruin,” said be, glancing around; “ivy cornea to decorate 
it; the birds of the air find their nests therein; God’s sun pours its 
cheering rays upon it. The soul, too, might be restored — renovated — 
let affection’s tendrils entwine it; the melody of joy dwell within; 
the Sun of Righteousness spread his healing wings around, — there is 
hope for the ruin yet. Miss Alice, but by what means is it to be re- 
stored?” 

He turned away as he uttered the last words, and Alice, deeply 
touched, made no reply. They remained for a few moments standing 
in silence, looking at the scene. 

“Had you not better call Brother? it is time for us to go,” said 
Alice. 

Graham sighed, and began to descend. “ I will return for you in a 
moment,” said he, looking back at her. 


146 


KENILWORTH. 


“‘Two things incomparably great,’” thought Alice, as she glanced 
after Graham and then at the soft, glorious sky. Southern in its 
warmth and beauty, “ ‘the starry heavens and the voice of conscience 
in the soul of man.’” 

As she stood looking at the sky and thinking of Graham, slowly 
the glorious clouds seemed, to roll back and reveal a vision of the 
inner glory. She seemed to see the great white throne and Him who 
sat upon it, before whose face the heaven and earth fled away. And 
before that throne, amid the innumerable throng, there bowed a fig- 
ure with face and lineaments like Graham’s — and yet. Oh! how radi- 
ant — transfigured. The glow of immortal youth lit up those noble 
features; intellect and humility sat on that majestic brow; love and 
joy beamed from those starry eyes; a smile of indescribable sweetness 
sat on the lips — the whole face and figure looked transformed into 
the beauty of holiness. 

“An Archangel!” thoijght Alice, with rapt wonder; “0, to see 
him thus hereafter, how gladly would I give my life.” 

“That were easy to do,” responded a voice, “but this is the life you 
must give, — slow, determined resistance to his mute, powerful plead- 
ings, his wondrous fascinations. Yearning with almost irresistible 
longing for love and sympathy yourself, you must daily, hourly, put 
the sparkling cup proffered you from your lips. The womanly arms 
by which you might help to bear that grand soul upward must be 
held back, — by moral effort, by Christian grace, by the voice of a 
friend alone, are you permitted to help him to God.” 

“Strength, 0 Redeemer of men — Sympathizer with men — for. the 
withered arm of my heart and will,” was Alice’s soul-cry. 

“You look like a prophetess,” said Graham as he returned, “with 
your kindling eye, firm lip, and marble cheek; have you seen a vision. 
Miss Alice ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Alice, extending him her hand to help her down. 

“ May I not know it ? ” said he in a low, earnest voice. 

“ Hereafter — not now,” she replied, and he said no more. 

‘And in the Hereafter the angels may 
Roll from the door the stone away,” 

quietly sang Alice’s heart as they walked in silence to the horses. 

They rode back through the beautiful grounds of Stoneleigh Ab- 
bey, with their huge trees, ivy-mantled lodge, and enclosed memorial 
trees, planted by the Queen and Prince Albert — a perfect picture of 
one of the' “stately Homes of England.” 


MORE THAN CONQUERORS. 


147 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ MORE THAN CONQUERORS.” 

Colonel Bradford had written to inform General Vaughan (Con- 
federate titles where deserved should be retained though on them is 
inscribed “Sacred to Memory”) of his family’s safe arrival in Eng- 
land, to which General Vaughan had briefly replied, saying that he 
would write next, and at more length, to Alice. A letter therefore 
to her from him might be expected at any time. 

“ There may be something — there surely will be something to help 
me in it,” thought she; “God may pity my sore need and send me 
the human help I so crave.” 

The evening of the day on which they visited Kenilworth, soon 
after tea Colonel Bradford and Mr. Graham went out to call on the 
officers of the Shenamloah^ who had just arrived in Leamington. A 
few minutes after they left the postman arrived with letters for Col- 
onel and Mrs. Bradford, and a letter for Alice — the latter from Gen- 
eral Vaughan. Alice felt that she could conceal any emotion from 
her brother and sister, but not from the quick, powerful glance which 
seemed to sound the depths of her soul; and it was with a sense of 
relief at Graham’s absence that she opened the letter. Mrs. Bradford 
was reading her own and her husband’s letters, and for a while Alice 
was left in silence. She opened it with a heart throbbing so wildly 
she almost feared that her sister would hear it. But it chilli soon 
enough as she read. From the congratulations on their safe arrival, 
and enjoyment of the wonders of the Old World, down to “Very 
truly, your friend,” all seemed to Alice cold, commonplace, indiffer- 
ent. “No hope now,” she thought, as the letter dropped from her 
hand; “I must fight this battle <.done." She handed her letter to 
Mrs. Bradford, and they sat talking until the gentlemen’s footsteps 
were heard in the hall. 

“ Excuse me. Sister,” said Alice, springing up, “ I do not feel well 
to-night,” — certainly true— and hastily kissing her, she left the room. 

Reaching her chamber, with a relieved sense of freedom from in- 
trusion, Alice fell on her knees beside the bed. She framed no words 
of prayer, but there arose spontaneously from her heart those precious 
words of the Litany, repeated so often from childhood’s years, un- 
meaningly perhaps, or carelessly, or with wandering thoughts, but 
coming now in her sore need to express her deepest wants: “By 


148 “ MORE THAN CONQUERORS.” 

thine Agony and bloody Sweat; by thy Cross and Passion — Good 
Lord, deliver me.” 

Tears came with the words and flowed freely for some time. At 
length, wiping them away, she rose from her knees to the contem- 
plation of what she must do. She shrank from nothing, but looked 
with yearning desire to know the truth into her own heart, and at 
the peril that confronted her. Within she saw strong, bursting sen- 
sibilities, longing for an object on which to expend themselves. 
What should she do with them? The same old question of years 
before repeated over again. “Give them to God,” was the reply. 
“But have I not striven — do I not strive to do so?” said Alice, “and 
I hope that I do in some measure; but there remains an earthly — a 
human part. Oh! ‘Earth is on my soul too strong’ — too strong.” 

Around her rose the fulness of her danger. Before her was her 
brother’s and sister’s happy married life, and yet in her own soul and 
in that of Graham she saw a capacity for happiness in each other 
far transcending that of her brother and sister. She knew that it 
would avail nothing to close her eyes to the truth; it was contrary to 
her custom to do so, and she sought it eagerly and passionately, spar- 
ing nothing. And this man for whom Nature had seemed to form 
her, she was to meet constantly — with that beautiful suggestive mar- 
ried life before them — around the fire-side, at the table, amid the 
glories of European art — each yearning for what the other alone 
could give, — love, sympathy, congeniality — and each to repress it, to 
put it down and put it away— could it be done? In this roused state 
of self-communion she did not even think that he loved his betrothed 
bride; she knew that he did not— that he loved her only. 

There was a sound below as if the family were breaking up for the 
night. Alice rose and turned off the gas with a fluttering fear that 
her sister would see the light and come in to know how she was. As 
Mrs. Bradford passed she stopped and gave a low knock, and think- 
ing Alice asleep went on. Mr. Graham’s room too lay beyond hers. 
There was a scarcely perceptible lingering in his footsteps as he 
passed her door, and then he also went on. 

Alone — Jind in the dark— Alice’s imagination and soul rose higher 
and higher in the effort to grapple with the difficulties which sur- 
rounded her. “Vaughan does not need you,” said a voice to her 
spirit; “ with his will and purpose he will attain heaven. Graham will 
never reach there unless you help him. Miss Trevelyan is a mere 
child — perhaps even now engaged to some one else, and Graham won’t 


“ MORE THAN CONQUERORS.” 149 

marry her now, any way.” “ That may be so,” said Alice, “ but are 
the principles of right and truth nothing? Am I to be false to my 
own tacit, implied engagement, and is he to be false to his open, 
avowed one? Am I to do evil that good may come? — ‘whose dam- 
nation is just.'' ‘Get thee hence, Satan!’ I am not ignorant of thy 
devices.” - 

And flashed across Alice’s mind wonder at the wiles of the great 
adversary; during all those daily, dangerous meetings with Graham 
where was the voice she had just heard? Silent as the grave. It 
was only with effort that she could keep herself reminded that Gra- 
ham was betrothed; whilst in her contemplated union with Albert 
Vaughan, the voice she had just heard was ever suggesting some 
cause of doubt, and trial, and perplexity. “0, blessed be God!” 
thought Alice, “the light breaks — I will do His will, whatever comes 
of it.” Again she concentrated her attention on her own heart, look- 
ing with fixed eyes within, — this tumult — these fears — what did they 
mean ? Could it be possible that she loved Robert Graham ? a man 
betrothed to another, whilst she herself was — betrothed? No— but 
something. She strove to examine herself, probing her own feelings 
in all their diversities and looking back on the love, now chilled and 
well-nigh hopeless, for Albert Vaughan. And then burst from her 
soul a joyous, thankful No ! She knew what love was, and she did 
not thus love Robert Graham. She had not been so false to her own 
sense of right as to love the betrothed of another, whilst she deemed 
herself tacitly pledged to another man. No, Alice! not for this have 
you striven for years to keep heart and imagination pure; this now 
is your reward for days and weeks and months of self-denial and lofty 
aim — that you do not love Robert Graham. Never for one moment 
has your imagination or heart rested on him as a lover or husband, or 
you might have been lost. He seems your soul’s twin-brother in 
that wondrous sympathy and congeniality of heart, mind, taste; and 
freely, gladly, joyously, to bring that gifted soul back to God and to 
life, bliss and immortality, would you lay down your own life. But 
that love is pure; as pure as was your love for the “Lost Cause,” or 
for the enemies for whom you risked your life; as pure as your ideal 
love for Plato or Bulwer — for Shakspeare or Bledsoe; born of your 
own poet-heart, of the soul which God has given and renewed. 

Again, with aroused hope and energy, Alice reviewed her position. 
She thought over the letter from Albert Vaughan — every word of 
which seemed to be written on her brain — and now felt that she had 


150 


“mohe than conquekors.” 

been unjust. AVlnit did be know of the difficulties that surrounded 
her? If sh(5 had not met Graham the letter would have alfected her 
in no unusual way, “Strong and steadfast as he is,*’ thought Alice, 
“how can he imagine how weak and wavering I am?” And then a 
thought suddenly flashed across her mind — she would write and tell 
him of her danger — enough for him to understand it; it would help 
her so to feel that he knew it. For if Miss Trevelyan should prefer 
another to Graham, could she be sure of herself with Graham, her 
brother and sister too assailing her, and he, whose true heart and 
strong arm should be ready to help her, distant and silent? Alice 
had far more simplicity of character than most women; the thought 
that there could be any want of propriety or womanly reserve in 
thus writing to Albert Vaughan did not even occur to her. Imagi- 
native and dreamy from her childhood, and only roused to a sense of 
actual life by religion, to her everything was either right or wrong. 
The conventionalities of society had little or no place in her code, 
though on ordinary occasions her instinctive sense of propriety would 
have kept her from violating them. But now, with these great ques- 
tions of right and wrong — duty — conflict — passion — temptation — 
pressing upon her, the thought seemed to her a gleam of light from 
heaven that she could write to him — her friend — her guardian — her 
father’s, and Charlie’s friend even more than her lover, to help her in 
this sore strait. She rose — relit the gas — sent a silent prayer to God 
for guidance, and wrote rapidly for half an hour. The letter finished, 
she read it over with a glow of relief. She had told him of her 
danger ,\her fears for herself, and her trust in her absent friend and 
guardian. The letter sealed and directed, Alice felt that she could 
rest. She undressed hastily — bathed her feverish head in cold water— 
and lifting the curtain looked out on the night. It was long past 
midnight. The sky was glorious with stars; all around they glit- 
tered in clusters or bands, shedding a soft, spiritual light on the earth. 
“And they that are wise shall shine as the firmament, and they that 
turn many to righteousness ^ the stars forever and ever,” came into 
her mind. A great prayer rose in -her soul for Graham— for herself— 
for Albert Vaughan and Louis — for all whom she loved or ever would 
love — for Christ’s people to the end — and for the world. And then 
she slept — slept like St. Cecilia with an angel watching her. 


BOATING ON THE LEAK. 


151 


CHAPTER VIL 

BOATING ON THE BEAM. 

There are few stranger things in the world than the contrast be- 
tween the outer and the inner life. We pass on through the span 
alloted to us here, eating and drinking, sleeping and waking, buying 
and selling, one life in many respects like another, and know nothing 
of the strange, dark, doubting, longing, suffering world within, on 
which Grod, and angels — good and bad — look with intense interest. 
Occasionally in every community, society is aroused for a moment 
from her apparent security by a suicide — an elopement — a murder — 
testifying to the volcanoes at work beneath the smiling exterior. 
Society wonders and gossips and shakes her head and goes on as be- 
fore, unmindful that in each heart an Etna sleeps, around each foot- 
step a chasm yawns, and without faith in Grod and the effort to do 
His will, none can say who will be the next victim. 

When Alice met the family the next morning, although inquiries 
were made after her health, none, save Mr. Graham, saw aught of the 
storm which had passed over her soul during the night. Alice felt, 
the instant his eye rested on her face that something was known — 
she knew not how much — and when again her eyes turned to his 
face, there was a look of gathered resolution around the mouth, while 
his dark eyes burned with a deeper glow. 

“Alice,” said Mrs. Bradford, as they rose from the breakfast-table, 
“we must go out boating on the Learn to-day; it may get too cool for 
us to go, and to-day would do for the Sunny South.” 

“Certainly,” said Alice, “I would like to go.” 

“Mr. Graham,” continued Mrs. Bradford, “won’t you go and col- 
lect some of our people to join the party? Lieutenant Manning and 
Doctor Lindsay, and some of the Easthurne girls.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Graham, “as soon as your good lord and I finish 
our cigars.” 

The custom of the ladies to sit with the gentlemen whilst the latter 
enjoyed their morning cigars or pipes, always kept up at Cooleemee, 
was continued in a foreign land. “This is the time for our ‘fine, full 
how of talk,’” the old Colonel used to say; “not impetuous and pow- 
erful like a cataract, but gentle and rippling as a summer stream.” 

Charlie now made his appearance, attended by his nurse, with 
newly-roached loiir and shining morning face; and Mrs. Bradford, too 


152 


BOATING ON THE LEAM. 


Southern a inolher to leave her child’s food to the care even of an 
English servant, busied herself in preparing the little man’s break- 
fast, whilst the rest of the party adjourned to the parlor. 

Colonel Bradford sat with easy, satislied look, watching the spiral 
columns of smoke which he sent up in the air, or exchanging a re- 
mark with Mr. Graluim. Tlie soothing fragrance of the Indian weed 
seemed to lose its charm in Mr. Graham’s case; he was restless and 
moody, and Alice wishing to avoid his searching eye, seated herself 
at the piano, asking the gentlemen if they would not like some music 
with their cigars. 

“Yes, if you will give us some of Burns’s songs,” said Colonel 
Bradford, “ fresh as the heather and bracing as the air of Auld Scot- 
land. And wind up with ‘Carry us back to Old Virginia.’” 

Alice played and sang “ Bonnie Doon,” “Auld Lang Syne,” and 
others of those sweetest and most touching of all melodies, winding 
up with “ Old Virginia.” Her voice was unusually clear and bird- 
like, and this morning there was an echo of the heart in it that struck 
both gentlemen. On glancing at Graham as she finished “Old Vir- 
ginia” she observed that his face was softened and suffused — some- 
thing like tears glistened in the fine eyes. Alice felt a sudden impulse 
to direct that roused feeling aright. 

“Now, Brother,” said she, “let me give you my favorite — some- 
thing fresher and purer than Burns, and older than ‘Old Virginia,’” 
and striking the keys she commenced, in tones from which all trace 
of earth-born sadness disappeared, as she sang the “Gloria In Ex- 
celsis” — that grand old tune married to the noblest words. As the 
last notes died on the air Alice turned her eyes on Graham and met 
a face brightened and elevated, and yet plainly asking in every speak- 
ing lineament, “Will you not help me to Him?” Alice turned away 
saddened and disappointed; “Not yet — not yet,” thought she. 

It was a lovely afternoon near the close of October that our party, 
consisting of Colonel and Mrs. Bradford, Mr. Graham and Alice, Doc- 
tor Lindsay and Lieutenant Manning, and Minna and Agnes East- 
burne, set out on their boating excursion. Two of the fairy-like little 
boats, the Merriweather and the Lady Lucy^ that lay in the harbor on 
the green-bordered Learn, were secured for the party, — Colonel Brad- 
ford and family taking one and the remainder of the party the other. 

“I am glad,” said Colonel Bradford, taking the oars in his hands 
and looking up at the clear blue sky on which scarcely a cloud rested, 
“to see that the sun can shine in England.” 


BOATING ON THE LEAM. 


153 


“Your pleasure will be of short duration,” said Mr. Graham; “the 
month of fog and suicide in England is approaching — known in our 
soft, glorious clime in Indian phrase as the ‘Moon of falling leaves.’” 

“We miss the gorgeous coloring of our woods at this season,” said 
Alice, “if one could miss anything in this land of beauty.” 

“The tints here are very lovely,” said Mr. Graham, “if you ap- 
proach them closely; but the change is much more gradual than in 
the South. Owing to the moisture of the climate, nothing equals 
the verdure here. As the returned missionary whom we heard the 
other day, said, ‘ There is no green like the green of England.’ But 
Edward” — as the boat gave a sudden lurch — “you understand pad- 
dling your own canoe in trans-Atlantic wilds better than on these 
miniature English waters. Give me the oars.” 

“ If you direct the bark of life as well you will reach a safe harbor,” 
vsaid Colonel Bradford, as the boat shot rapidly over the watery sur- 
face; “and with a fair spirit at your side, I predict you a smooth voy- 
age, without fear of storms or quicksands.” 

“ I hope so,” said Mr. Graham, “ with one who will help to bring 
me safely to the haven where I would be.” 

They now approached the bridge and stopped to view the grand old 
castle of Warwick as it rose above them on its granite foundation. 
The other boat drew near. 

“We want the opinion of each member of your party,” said Doctor 
Lindsay, as he dropped anchor by the side of the Merriweather^ “on a 
question we have been discussing. I had a letter from home yester- 
day informing me of the marriage of a friend, and giving a detailed 
history thereof. He addressed the lady whom he has married before 
the war, and she received his addresses favorably; but some serious 
obstacle — no matter what, for it don’t concern the question — inter- 
vened, and they parted never expecting to meet again. During the 
war he became engaged to another lady, and was on the point of 
marrying her when he received a letter from a friend of the former 
one, informing him that the obstacle to the marriage had been re- 
moved, and there was no doubt from the lady’s course that she had 
never conquered her attachment for him. He then broke off the en- 
gagement with the last lady and returned to the first one, with the 
pica that he loved her the best, and that no man should marry one 
woman loving another better. Miss Agnes here is indignant, and 
says he is unprincipled; Miss Minna, as usual, gives no opinion, and 
ridicules all; whilst Manning and I, though we think it most unfor- 


154 


BOATING ON THE LEAM. 


tuiiate ill this case, can’t reconcile ourselves to the idea of marrying 
one woman and loving another. What says this party?” 

“ That he did wrong,” said Alice. 

“That he did right,” said Mr. Graham. 

“Well,” said Doctor Lindsay, laughing, “you two are decided 
enough at any rate. I wonder if Colonel and Mrs. Bradford will 
agree.” Mrs. Bradford looked at her husband. 

“I certainly agree with you and the Lieutenant that it is a most 
unfortunate position for a man to be placed in,” said Colonel Brad- 
ford, “but I do not see how I could have married any other woman 
than Kate if it had been possible to get her.” 

“And no true woman would be willing to marry a man who loved 
another,” said Mrs. Bradford. 

“But that is not the question,” said Lieutenant Manning, “we are 
speaking on the supposition that the lady knew nothing of the case — 
merely as to how the gentleman should have acted.” 

“ I think Mrs. Bradford will agree with the Colonel,” said Doctor 
Lindsay, smiling, “so the chief argument will rest between Mr. 
Graham and Miss Alice. What say you, Graham?” 

“That he did right,” again repeated Mr. Graham, with firmness. 
“ What gives value to anything but the heart 1 There is something 
greater and stronger than vows, and when they clash, the less should 
yield to the greater. Do you think that Jepthah should have sacri- 
ficed his daughter. Miss Alice?” 

“Of course not,” said Alice, “but the cases are different. Jepthah 
sacrificed his daughter by keeping his vow, whilst this man sacrificed 
a woman who trusted him by breaking his.” 

“And would have sacrificed himself and a woman who had long 
loved him, and entailed misery on the woman he married by keeping 
it,” said Mr. Graham. 

“I do not admit your conclusions,” said Alice; “I believe that in 
some way good will always follow doing what is right. He was free 
from the first lady; he was bound by the strongest tie that can exist 
before marriage to the second. I think that he should have thrust 
the knowledge that he could marry .the first one from him as a tempt- 
ation, and not have given it a moment’s parley. I recall several in- 
stances of similar cases in books in which the writers agree with me; 
one in the Virginia novel ‘Alone,’ a case of misunderstanding, but 
neither the man nor the woman seemed for one moment to think 
that the betrothal could be annulled. And in the ‘ Mill on the Floss,’ 


BOATING ON THE LEAM. 


155 


in which Maggie so touchingly appeals to Stephen to help her to do 
right. With all due deference to the rest of the party — Agnes ex- 
cepted — I do not think your views will stand the test of morality 
and relig'on.” 

“ I cannot help being of Mrs. Bradford’s opinion,” said Mr. Gra^ 
ham, “that something is due the unfortunate unloved one besides the 
mere letter of the law without the spirit. The instinct of your sex. 
Miss Alice, readily detects the difference between love and a mechan- 
ical performance of duty. If a man does not love a woman when he 
marries her it is not probable that he will do so afterwards. And 
Heaven forbid that any woman should ever treat me with such in- 
justice as Maggie designed against Philip. As beautiful as that scene 
appears to you. Miss Alice, I would have no other man help my be- 
trothed to marry me against her heart. What say you, Miss Agnes? ” 

“ I do not pretend to argue with you, Mr. Graham,” said Agnes, 
“but I do not believe you are right. I stand to it that he should 
have done as Alice says, resisted the temptation and married the wo- 
man to whom he was engaged.” 

“Agnes thinks she is right, because she thinks she is right,” said 
Minna, laughing; “there’s a woman’s reason for you, Mr. Graham.” 

“A young girl’s instinct may be' of more value than a man’s rea- 
son,” said Lieutenant Manning, gravely. “I confess to some doubt 
of a cause opposed by Miss Alice’s reason and Miss Agnes’s in- 
stinct.” 

“ Graham, my dear fellow, I don’t like to compare you to a fallen 
angel,” said Colonel Bradford, “but I know of old that you are 
skilled in making ‘the worse appear the better reason.’ Graham’s 
side always carried the question in our debating societies at college. 
Alice, I see something trembling in your face — let us have it, little 
sister.” 

“ I was thinking,” said Alice, the color deepening in her face, “ of 
how little value a promise and trust would be if they were subject to 
the control of passion and feeling. Our feelings are fluctuating and 
must need be steadied by principle. Mr. Graham has drawn one il- 
lustration from the Bible; let me repeat a few words which may 
throw some light on the subject. In the description of a righteous 
man, of him, ‘ whoso doeth these things shall never fall,’ is this lead- 
ing characteristic: ‘He that sweareth to his neighbor and disappoint- 
eth him not though it were to his own hindrance.’ And it seems to 
me that if one promise could be more sacred than another, it would be 


156 


HELEN WALKER. 


that made by a man to a woman on the most sacred and delicate of 
subjects.” 

“Beat! Beat!” exclaimed Doctor Lindsay; “confess it, Graham, 
like a true foenian. Miss Alice, I’m in favor of ‘Woman's Rights,’ 
and suggest that you be a lawyer — though such an honest one wjis 
ne’er found.” 

On their way back Alice was unusually thoughtful and quiet, re- 
volving a problem in her mind. How strange that her brother and 
Lieutenant Manning, communicants in the Church and standards of 
moral character, should view as they did the question they had just 
discussed. Not one agreed with her except Agnes Eastburne, a girl 
of seventeen. What was to become of the world if ihe higheat thought 
thus? If theirs the standard of moral rectitude — what was the 
lower? 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HELEN WALKER. 

One evening, shortly after the conversation related in the last chap- 
ter, Helen W alker called to take Alice on a drive in her pony-carriage. 
Since the day they went to Burleigh House the two girls had been 
drawing nearer to each other. Helen’s sudden action in kissing her 
hand had aroused Alice to the enthusiasm dormant in her nature; she 
no longer thought her “ cold and calculating,” but felt a deeper in- 
terest in her because of the reserve which veiled so much warmth. 

Helen took Alice on a short circuit around Leamington, pointing 
out each object of interest as she drove rapidly over the smooth, white 
roads, and paying Alice, whom she regarded as a choice Southern 
exotic, every attention by the way. Alice’s spirits rose to a state of 
delight as they traversed the beautiful country, with its meadow and 
hedge, village and church. As the scene became somewhat familiar 
to Alice, they grew to discussing more serious subjects — England and 
America — the difference in their manners and customs — society — re- 
ligion — courtship and marriage, — each arrested for a time the girls’ 
thoughts and conversation. The sun was setting as they drove into 
Leamington; the evening was soft and lovely. 


HELEN WALKER. 


157 


“Let us leave the pony at home,” said Miss Walker, as they reached 
the Rectory, “ and walk down and take a look at the Leam.” Alice 
assented, and giving the pony in charge of a servant, the girls walked 
down to the river. 

The Learn looked as placid as if generations had not risen and 
passed away on her banks; and with arms locked together, long the 
two girls promenaded, loth to leave her calm, moonlit loveliness. 
Each felt that their friendship had made rapid strides this evening; 
each felt the sweet content of sympathy, appreciation, love. Helen 
looked upon Alice as a nonpareil of goodness and loveliness, whose 
equal was not to be found in the British Isles. Alice’s warm heart 
was making full amends to Helen for having thought her cold at 
first, and suddenly a strong desire rose within her heart to know if 
Helen had ever loved, — if there she could sympathize with her. They 
approached the bank to take a parting look at the water, and were 
standing with arms thrown around each other, gazing on the moon- 
beams reflected in its still, glassy surface. 

“Helen,” said Alice, suddenly — Helen’s arm clasped her more 
closely, it was the first time she had called her thus — “may I ask you 
one question?” 

“Yes,” said Helen, “anything you wish.” 

“Have you ever loved?” said Alice, turning and looking her in 
the face. 

A great flash passed over Helen’s face; there was scarcely need for 
the low, emphatic “Yes,” which followed. The girls were clasped in 
each other’s arms, and felt from that moment that they were one. 
And in a few days each knew the other’s love-story. Alice had never 
confided in any one — not even Lily — so fully. And there was a charm 
in this confidence in a foreign land which home did not possess. The 
ocean rolled between her and Albert Vaughan, and she could speak 
freely of him to one who would probably never see him. Had he 
been near she could not thus have spoken, even to the friend who 
seemed almost as her own soul. All her trials, too, concerning Louis 
and Mr. Graham were fully confided to Helen, and Alice saw the 
providence and felt the goodness of God in sending her aid at this 
critical moment. It was not the help she io?i^ed/or, but the help 
she needed, to have this true, sympathizing friend, with her strong 
Christian principle, and sound English sense, and sturdy English 
views of rectitude and honor, to sustain her now when Southern 
views of right and duty were unequal to the pressure of life. 


158 


HELEN WALKER. 


And in Helen’s story there was such a wonderful likeness to her 
own. Betrothed three years before to a poor curate, now in a distant 
part of England^ and waiting as only Englishwomen wait, till better 
days should admit of their marriage; and yet with a feeling, only 
recently acknowledged to herself, and which she would have breathed 
tO: no one of English birth, that were she the man and he the wo- 
man, this poverty would not prove an insuperable obstacle to their 
union, till, as Thackeray says, they could go to church in a coach and 
four. One thing, however, the girls agreed upon, that their lovers 
each believed himself to be right. 

“I had rather,” said Alice, her dark eyes lighting as she spoke, 
“lose my confidence in his love than in his goodness. I could bear 
for him to cease to love me better than for him to fall from my high 
belief , in his truth and jmrity.” 

“You rise higher than I do, darling,” said Helen, looking at her 
wonderingly; “I cannot go beyond the thought of his ceasing to 
love me.” 

They were walking in one of the loveliest nooks of Jephson’s 
Gardens when this conversation took place, and here, and on the 
Learn, and to Warwick and Tachbrook, walking or driving, the girls 
passed much of their time for several weeks. 

“ I think,” said Alice, during one of these excursions when the sub- 
ject nearest their hearts was under discussion, “ that good and 
thoughtful men feel more responsibility in marriage than women.” 

“ They haven’t women’s faith,” said Helen. 

“And the question may be with them,” said Alice; “where faith 
should stop and prudence begin.” ‘ 

“It might be well if they consider where prudence should stop and 
faitli })egin,” said Helen, smiling. “1 was thinking of it last night 
after we })arted^ Alice,— here are we two, wearing our youth away, 
‘ letting lOur freshness die,’ waiting for two men who will ask us — I 
say it reverently— God only knows when, to marry them. Will we 
ever regret it in the future?” 

“1 will not,” said Alice, “for it is all that I can do. I do acknowl- 
edge tJiat 1 am tempted, Helen, but deep down below the temptation 
there is a voice — not a very loud or strong one, but sufficient — that 
soimwhere ihare is a reward for persisting in the light — for following 
the light given, though it is not a very bright light, and sometimes 
I must strain a little to see it.”. 

“0, if we only sought for it as hid treasure, darling,” said Helen, 


HELEN WALKER. 


159 


“as we ought to do. But, Alice, I have a temptation that you have 
not— you seem to me to soar above everything human and earthly. 

I have watched you with gentlemen and even with that splendid 
Grraham^ you‘ never show the least disposition to flirt. You are al- 
ways the same— simple, unassuming, and treating every man as if by 
no possibility he could become your lover. Now, I feel an almost 
unconquerable disposition to flirt with every on& who seems to like 
me — though I do love my Forrest.” 

“And do you think I never feel any such disposition ? ” said Alice. 
“Not, I suppose, as you do, but something like it. No intentional 
coquetry, but yielding of the heart to the call of love, even when I 
feel bound to another, and when I know such yielding is wrong and 
unwise. I have tried to direct these feelings into friendship’s safe 
channels, and yet I have feared that this was a deeper and more dan- 
gerous coquetry; it keeps away transient admirers, but those who 
learn to know you well may grow to love you more than through the 
indulgence of a light coquetry. I think this has been the case with 
Louis, and in some measure perhaps with Mr. Graham. You call me 
heroine, Helen, but I fear that I do not belong to the class of hero- 
ines, one of whom put some poisonous substance on her face to de- 
stroy her beauty, because she discovered that her sister was attached 
to her own lover.” 

“That wais not heroism, but fanaticism,” said Helen; “all that the 
highest and purest morality requires you will do. Suppose you had 
been cold to Louis, you would have thrown him off and lost all op- 
portunity of directing him aright. And, my darling, you don’t know 
the good you will do such a man as Mr. Graham by giving him a 
high ideal of woman; and that could not have been done unless he 
had known you well.” 

“What a discipline Love is in the world, if we will receive it as 
such,” said Alice; “and Oh! how terrible are its consequences if we 
will not. ^ Here (in this life) Love does not rule^ but it trains ; and 
that is more’— better for us here that it should train than rule — train- 
ing us until we can bear for it to rule. Apply it to ourselves, dar- 
ling — this long waiting— this ‘hope deferred’ — this necessity for 
patience, trust, and self-control; isn’t it better for us than if no cloud 
had sprung up in the clear heaven of our young love? Will it not 
make me better — purer — more unselflsh — if I learn not to ‘covet’ Ms 
thoughts and memories and love of his lost one — of her who was his 
openly betrothed whilst I am not? Everywhere we see it that Love 


160 


CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND. 


does not rule, but trains. The wife must obey her husband, the child 
his parents, the servant his master, the citizen the law. This would 
be easy if Love ruled, but it trains by the effort to bring the will and 
heart into subjection. And so it is in God's laws in regard to Him- 
self; here alas! Love does not rule, but it trains. Helen, God cannot 
in mercy to us, give us the fulness of His love and joy here — we are 
not fitted for it — when we are perfect then will Love train no more, 
but ruley 

“Yes, if we accept the training,” said Helen; “if not, it makes us 
worse.” 

“Certainly,” said Alice, “accepting or not accepting — that makes 
all the difference.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND. 

Week after week passed away, but brought no letter from Albert 
Vaughan. The words wrung from Alice’s heart in that night of 
agony seemed destined to remain unanswered. “What could it 
mean ? ” was the uppermost, wearing thought of Alice’s life. Often 
in her walks and drives with Helen this was the subject of conversa- 
tion. Could it be that he was offended — disgusted — by the fulness of 
her confidence in him — her mute appeal for sympathy and help? 
Could he — did he — misunderstand her? He, who had known her 
from childhood, the friend of her dead father and brother, and her 
own guardian? Oh! was he so narrow — so contracted — as not to 
understand her? Or in his own immovable, granite strength did he 
despise her weakness? Alice felt how unjust to her either of these 
suppositions would be. Nor could she help feeling deeply in her in- 
most soul that not thus would Louis — or Mr. Graham — have judged 
her. She knew that they did full justice to the elevation of thought 
and motive which might not always act in strict accordance with con- 
ventional rules. 

“Darling, I must say to you,” said Helen one day as they prome- 
naded on the banks of the Learn, “ that I do not think he is worthy 


CHRISTMAS IH ENGLAND. 


161 


of you. Alice, hear me out. He is a good man — upright and true — 
there are many such men in England — but narrow in his views and 
feelings, wishing everything to be circumscribed by his own notions 
of right and propriety. Alice, with your imagination and great heart 
union with such a man would be a living grave. You could not — 
you ought not — to cut your soul down to the measure of his. I think 
him cold and selfish — without sympathy” — continued Helen, with 
warmth as Alice again attempted to interrupt her; “ his heart wants 
sympathy as his mind wants imagination. Darling, you thought it 
beautiful in him to speak to you of his early love, even while you suf- 
fered under it; you thought it showed such constancy of nature, so 
unlike other men, and that it even might be his object to purify and 
elevate your character by it. I would not tell you so at first, but I 
always thought it selfish and cruel. If you had been his loved and 
happy wife it would have been different; then your fulness of confi- 
dence might be perfect, but under the circumstances it was short- 
vsighted and unfeeling. You would not have acted so, my precious 
one. Did you dwell on the joys of freedom to the prisoners in hos- 
pital ? Or on the pleasures of health to the sick ? Never, you know — 
and yet you bear it all like an angel as you are.” 

Alice felt that Helen was unjust to Albert Vaughan; that she had 
no idea of the strong, warm affections hidden away beneath his re- 
served exterior, and kept in obeyance by his unyielding will. Still 
there was enough truth — or the semblance of truth — in what Helen 
said to suggest doubt; doubt, the great enemy of faith and love. 
And this view of Albert Vaughan’s character was unfavorable to her 
resistance of Graham’s devotion and appreciation of her, — Graham, 
with the mind both telescopic and microscopic, with nothing beyond 
the range of his sympathy and observation. 

‘‘And is Helen to be a tempter?” thought Alice; “then indeed am 
I driven only to God. But whether I ever hear from him again or 
not, it must be all the same. Mr. Graham is the betrothed of an- 
other; I could never look upon Louis as a lover — so love — this love — 
must be put out of my life forever.” 

But what woman ever put the thought of that love from her life 
without a pang? Even though as the years go by and righteousness 
bears her sweet fruits, and the love that might have been husband’s 
and child’s is given to bless and uplift a fallen world, from Jephthah’s 
daughter and Antigone down to our own day — 

“Ah, well for us all some sweet hope lies 
Buried forever from humau eyes.” 


1G2 


CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND. 


Not often in the “long tragedy” of her discipline wa.s Alice alto- 
gether hopeless. Sometitnes she lay for a while crushed ajid pros- 
trate, “when all seemed lost except a little life.” But experience 
soon taught her that after the storm had spejit its force she would 
rally again. Her sense of duty urged her to the effort, and her sub- 
mission to God’s will and natural elasticity of body and spirit helped 
her. But for these, Alice’s sun, like that of many a young soul to 
whom life’s trials are new, might have gone down in darkness. Be 
warned, therefore, 0 fair young girl, who bends over these pages to 
read the story of one like yourself, and give your heart to God “e’er 
the dark hours be.” And you, dear youth, restrain, by God’s grace, 
those opening passions — be master of yourself, before Self makes of 
you slave and coward. 

Mr. Graham, lis well as other Southerners, lingered in Leamington 
watching the course of events in the United States. He determined, 
whilst waiting for affairs to become more settled in the South, to em- 
ploy himself in writing. Alice had been thrown less with him since 
her intimacy with Helen, but now Mrs. Bradford pressed Helen to 
unite with them in a course of morning reading to be conducted by 
her husband. “It is the only thing to see anything of you and 
Alice,” said she, “and Edward says we will appreciate everything so 
much more in this country if we read.” 

On the first morning that the readings — from Shakepeare — com- 
menced, Mr. Graham made his appearance with pen, ink and paper. 

“Will you permit me, ladies, to follow my vocation in your pres- 
ence?” said he; “it will be so much more pleasant than the solilitude 
of my own room. Fortunately, I have such powers of abstraction 
that neither your voices nor Charlie’s noise can rouse me when once 
engaged. Your fair faces will be an inspiration, and when I am at a 
loss you will help me.” 

And not unfrequently the readings were interrupted by appeals 
from Graham in reference to some matter of taste or belief — “ some- 
thing in which the instinctive sense of your sex is far better than the 
most labored thought of ours” — said Colonel Bradford, in which 
Graham agreed; but one would have supposed he thought the “in- 
stinctive sense” confined to Alice, for his eye and voice turned only 
to her in these questionings. His manner, however, was only that 
of quiet friendship; not a word or a look occurred now to alarm or 
distress her; and Alice, rejoiced to be his friend^ threw off* some of 
ber reserve and came freely to his aid. 


CHRISTMAS IlSr ENGLAND. 163 

One day Colonel Bradford, looking over his friend’s shoulder as he 
wrote, exclaimed: 

“Well, Alice — here is Graham putting you in print and, I dare say, 
thinks its all his own;” and he read aloud a sentence in which Alice’s 
and Graham’s thoughts were interwoven like warp and woof. Gra- 
ham smiled and wrote on, and Alice colored with mingled feelings of 
pain and pleasure. 

A letter at last from Albert Vaughan! but to Colonel Bradford, 
and containing sad news. Morotock was in avshes! A second time 
was the home of his fathers laid low. Whether through the care- 
lessness of the negroes who still inhabited the place, or the work of 
some wandering Federal or ex-Confederate soldier, none could say. 
Reader, did you ever observe that the thing that has occurred to you 
once in life is apt to occur again? Is it, that our Father will do His 
work well ? that the discipline once chosen by the perfect Teacher 
must be repeated more than once before we learn the lesson? 

No word to Alice in the letter, except “Best regards to Mrs. Brad- 
ford and Alice.” The same mail brought a letter from Louis to Alice; 
he had been very ill — “more so than ever in my life before,” wrote 
he. “Miss Alice, I hav^ thrown myself into my work and gotten 
interested in it, and I can’t tell you how I felt thus to be cut off from 
it — to lie and hear the car-whistle, and the coming and going of the 
trains, and the rush of feet on the pavement, and to feel that I had 
no part in it all. 0, then it is that man feels his need of woman.” 

“ Stay with me to-night, darling,” whispered Alice to Helen on the 
evening of the day the letters came, “ I feel that I need you specially.” 
And that night as they sat with their hair floating on their shoulders, 
on the rug before the tire, Alice poured forth her heart to Helen. 

“Louis is growing more thoughtful,” said she; “0 would that I 
could have been with him in that sickness — but it is better so. Helen, 
do you know the picture that his letter brings up before me? It is 
of the time when he shall lie still and cold, and give no heed to the 
rush and roar around him. When the newspapers will chronicle his 
death in one corner, and then with a single black line begin the 
world again, — the market — the opera — and nearer still, the marriage. 
Did you never feel it, darling, this shock of the world after the death 
of a loved one? this strangeness of beginning life anew without 
them? But Louis may weep for me — not I for him.” 

“ Let us trust in the Love that doeth all things well,” said Helen, 
ill her cheery English voice, smoothing back the hair from Alice’s 


1(54 


CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND. 


forehead; “the words are old, darling, but they are new to each gen- 
eration: ‘He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for 
us all, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things?’” 

That night as the girls lay asleep, Alice was aroused by what 
seemed to her strains of the sweetest music; it was not very near, 
and the distance increased the effect. Hastily rousing Helen, she 
asked her what it meant. 

“ It is the ‘Waits,’” said Helen, drowsily. 

“The ‘Waits,’” repeated Alice; “what are they?” 

“ They play for some nights before Christmas,” said Helen, “and 
come around Christmas-day for you to pay them for it. Go to sleep, 
dear; you will hear enough of it.” 

But Alice had no thought of sleep; a word — a tone — a note of 
music — touching the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound — 
was enough to rouse her mind to fullest activity. The soft, low 
strains of music — not sad, but sweet — roused many a sleeping mem- 
ory. Thoughts of the old time at Cooleemee, when the rich, mellow 
voices of the negroes came in at her open window, floated through 
her brain. She thought of them now as sheep without a shepherd, 
and breathed a silent prayer to God for them. Then, as the music 
came nearer and rose more cheerily on the air, she thought of Christ- 
mas — of the glad time at hand — when Christmas-day should be kept 
by the rejoicing land in which her lot was now cast; and repeating 
the “Gloria In £xcelsis,” she fell asleep. 

Christmas-eve Helen took tea at Colonel Bradford’s, and the whole 
family, excepting Mr. Graham, who was busy finishing an article, 
accompanied her on her return home. As they walked through the 
brilliantly-lighted streets everything and everybody seemed to wear a 
look of expectation. Here, beautiful flowers were displayed in a 
shop-window, among them a vase of seeds containing an ear of In- 
dian corn, “from foreign parts,” said the shop-keeper, observing 
Alice’s look at the corn, as visions of the waving corn-fields of Coo- 
leemee rose before her mind; there a hog, to Charlie’s delight, hung 
at full length, beautifully cleaned and white, and decorated with 
bright ribbons. 

“I am glad,” said Alice, catching exhilaration from the scene, “to 
see a Christmas in England. What visions of yule and holly — of 
blazing fires, roast beef and plum-pudding, rise before me here ! ” 

“ Christmas with us now,” said Helen, “ I am glad to say, is more 
devoted to the poor than to feasting among ourselves.” 


CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND. 


165 


“I want some taiidy!” shouted Charlie, as they passed a window 
in which that delight of childhood was displayed in various fantastic 
forms.” 

“Come along,” said Maggie, the practical English nurse; “candy 
isn’t good for children to eat.” 

“And what was tandy made for then, if it ain’t for children to 
eat? ” asked Charlie, wonderingly — to which question Maggie thought 
ht to hold her peace, and waive the argument by directing the young 
man’s attention to some musicians who appeared in the distance. 
And with throbbing hearts and tearful eyes our exiled party heard 
them strike up “Dixie!” and such was the benefaction showered on 
them that a scout was detailed from their number to watch the 
progress of the Bradfords, and night after night, even after the golden 
shower ceased, “Dixie” was played beneath their window. 

On Christmas-day it seemed to the Bradfords as if everybody in 
Leamington was going to church. Crowds of the reserved, steadfast- 
looking Englishmen, with and without a portly, good-looking wife, 
and fine, healthy children, were seen hurrying in the direction of the 
churches. 

“ What a contrast to the towns in our country,” said Mr. Grraham 
to Alice, as they walked to church ; “ there the women go to church 
and a few men ; here the men seem to consider religion a business 
grave and important enough to give it their first attention.” 

“And these days of the national Church,” said Alice, “no doubt 
tend to keep reverence for religion alive in the hearts of the people. 
Helen told me how shocked the English were to hear that President 
Lincoln was killed at a theatre on Good Friday ^ — she could hardly 
realize it when I told her that he might not even have known that it 
was Good Friday.” 

“1 agree with Bishop Doane that ‘the glory of England is the 
Church of England,’” said Colonel Bradford. 

“And not only the glory of England,” said Mr. Graham, “ but the 
hope of the continent of Europe — the leaven with which the meal is 
leavened — the tree spreading its branches into all lands. In the 
heart of that whited sepulchre — Paris — in infidel Germany — in cor- 
rupt Rome herself — wherever English people go — she keeps a pure 
religion alive. Of course she has some evils — but as Mr. Walker 
says, she has fewer evils and more good than any other form of Chris- 
tianity on earth.” 

“‘It is the lone thing that knows no change,”’ said Alice, as they 


160 


ROSE TREVELYAN. 


walked up the steps, greeting Helen and her father as they appeared; 
‘Hhe Church — here we are always at Home.” 

They were met by the fresh, sweet fragrance of evergreens — “the 
fir tree, the pine tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of 
my sanctuary,” as in the churches at home. And the same anthems 
of prayer and praise were sung — the same holy communion service — 
and Angelic Hymn — in which the soul seemed to rise on wings and 
enter Paradise. 

As the last notes of the “Gloria In Excelsis” died away, Alice in- 
voluntarily looked at Mr. Graham. His eyes were cast down, but a 
deeply-thoughtful expression pervaded his whole countenance. There 
was a look of self-communing, of awakened responsibility on his face 
that Alice had never seen there before. Her thoughts reverted to his 
look when she last sang the “Gloria,” and a thrill of hope and joy 
sprang up in her heart that a better life was dawning for him. “ ‘Joy 
in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth,’ ” 
thought Alice, as she lay her head on her pillow that Christmas 
night; “0, I can a little understand that joy if he becomes a Chris- 
tian.” 


CHAPTER X. 

ROSE TREVELYAN. 

On the morning after Christmas-day, as the family lingered at the 
breakfast-table, the mail was brought in. Mr. Graham broke open a 
letter, and rising abruptly left the room. Mrs. Bradford, occupied 
with Charlie, and Colonel Bradford with the Standard, no one noticed 
him except Alice. At dinner he did not appear; had taken a long 
walk with some friends and would dine with them. Colonel Bradford 
said, “and Graham tells me that he heard this morning that the 
Trevelyans will be here by New Year’s. He did not seem to be par- 
ticularly rejoiced for a lover — perhaps there has been a lovers’ quarrel.” 

For the next few days Mr. Graham did indeed seem to be unusually 
moody and constrained; so much so as to cause various conjectures 
in the circle in which he moved. Alice’s heart beat quicker in antic- 
ipation of the coming of the Trevelyans. She yearned to do some- 


ROSE TREVELYAN. 


167 


thing to help Graham to meet his duty nobly and truly, but she felt 
as if standing on quicksands. What could she do? Only pray. 
And Graham — did no instinct tell him that a woman’s counsel and 
.friendship were strong to aid him now? 

On the evening before the Trevelyans were expected, Graham en- 
tered the parlor where Alice chanced to be sitting alone at the piano. 
Walking hastily up to her, he drew a letter from his pocket, saying: 

“Miss Alice, I believe you are generous enough to play confidante to 
my sex on various occasions — I would like you to read this letter.” 

Alice trjinbled a little, but took it and read as follows: 

Paris, December 24, 1865. 

My dear Mr. Graham : 

Brother has at last concluded that my probation is over, and 
that we may return to England by New Year’s. I am delighted at the 
idea, for I have not enjoyed this trip at all. I hope that it isn’t im- 
proper for me to say that everybody has seemed to me so inferior to 
you that I received attentions most unwillingly — almost with disgust. 
Sister says she hopes that you have been as faithful as I have been. 
1 do not fear that you have not, for I know that you are too good and 
too great to do anything wrong. We are engaged to dine out to-day, 
and I only write these few lines in haste to announce our coming. 
Hoping to see you soon, your own, “ Little Rose.” 

“A sweet, confiding letter,” said Alice, looking up at Mr. Graham 
as she finished it; “I feel sure that I will love her.” 

“ It is fortunate that she thinks so highly of me,” said Mr. Graham, 
satirically, “but I fear there is little chance of her helping me to do 
right while she thinks I can’t do wrong.” 

“ Perhaps she will get over that,” said Alice, smiling. “ In a na- 
ture so free from vanity, and so trusting and loving, there must be 
great development. Thank you for showing me the letter,” and turn- 
ing suddenly to the piano Alice resumed her playing. Mr. Graham 
looked at her for a moment in silence and left the room. 

The Trevelyans arrived at the time appointed, on the evening be- 
fore New Year’s, and were met by Mr. Graham at the station. The 
next morning the Bradfords, accompanied by Mr. Graham, went to 
call on them. As they entered the handsomely-furnished parlor, a 
vision of beauty such as is rarely seen burst upon them. Mrs. Tre- 
velyan, a splendid blonde, now past forty but retaining much of her 
early bloom, arrayed in black velvet and pearls, stood looking out a 
window on the street. Lolling in a large arm-chair, dressed in the 
Englishman’s unfailing suit of black, and with the American’s un- 


168 


HOSE TREVELYAN. 


failing cigar and newspaper, was Mr. Trevelyan; a tall, good-looking, 
sensible, indolent man, with a droll sense of humor running through 
his composition. In the arm-chair opposite sat his mother, the dow- 
ager Lady Trevelyan, as he dubbed her since their coming to Eng-* 
land, a lovely old lady in deep black and widow’s cap, but with a face 
of child-like simplicity and innocence, engaged in dressing a doll. 
Just turning from the piano, her white hands — from one of which 
flcished a diamond — still resting on the keys, sat Rose Trevelyan — a 
Rose indeed. Dressed under her sister-in-law’s supervision — who felt 
an artist’s delight in adorning her — in a robe of soft white cashmere, 
trimmed with white satin and rich lace, with pink camellias in her 
hair and corsage, outrivalled in beauty of color by her cheeks and 
lips. Never had Alice beheld so perfect a beauty. From the crown 
of the graceful head, with its mass of dark hair, down the clear fore- 
head and exquisitely-pencilled brow, the large, bright, gray eyes — 
too bright but for the softening of the long, curled lashes — the 
straight, delicate nose, cherry lips and dimpled chin, throat, bust, 
hand and arm, to the sole of the fairy foot, like Absalom, there seemed 
to be no blemish in her. Alice’s first emotion was of wonder that 
Mr. Graham could be false to such beauty; and as she caught a 
glimpse of her own slight figure and pale face in a mirror opposite, 
in contrast with Miss Trevelyan’s bloom, her wonder deepened. The 
open folding-doors revealed a round table in the next room spread 
with rare luxuries — fiowers and fruits mingling their sweet odors and 
bright colors with the fragrant steam of Mocha, — Mr. Trevelyan, in 
compliance with his mother’s wishes, allowing no wine at his table. 
The Bradfords were greeted with true Southern warmth and hospi- 
tality. 

“You see I am trying to imagine I am at home by remembering 
New Year’s,” said Mrs. Trevelyan. “I am so glad you have come to 
favor the illusion.” 

“I did not know that New Year’s day belonged exclusively to 
Americans,” said Mr. Trevelyan, depositing the remains of his cigar 
behind the grate. 

“The English have so many other national holidays they don’t re- 
quire this one as we do,” said Colonel Bradford. 

“And this one is not at all common at the South, so far as I have 
known,” said Mr. Trevelyan. “I think that Emily” — looking at his 
wife — “introduced it in our town; and I am inclined to believe that 
the paraphernalia is half the charm to her.” 


KOSE TREVJSLVAK. 


169 


“ I don’t take the trouble to defend myself from my husband’s ac- 
cusal ions,” said Mrs. Trevelyan, smiling brightly, “it would take too 
inuch time — but retire on the simple assumption that I am in the 
right.” 

“Something new for your sex, Mrs. Trevelyan — isn’t it?” said 
Colonel Bradford, “to maintain their rights by silence.'" 

“'My gracious silence,’” thought Mr. Graham as his eye rested on 
Alice, now in conversation with Rose; “there is a woman who knows 
when to speak and when to be silent.” 

Rose had heard much of Alice and was woman enough to be con- 
scious of the contrast between her own brilliant beauty and Alice’s 
slight figure and pale face; but impulsive and confiding, she instinc- 
tively yielded her heart to the charm of Alice’s winning sympathy. 

“1 think she is pure and perfect,” said Rose, enthusiastically, after 
the party left; “too good for this world.” 

“Like Byron’s saint, sitting at the gate of Paradise inviting sinners 
to enter,” said Mrs. Trevelyan, junior. 

“ I always feel some doubt of those exceptional people,” said Mr. 
Trevelyan, dryly; “they are so much better than the rest of the 
world in some things, I wonder if they are not worse in others.” 

“Hush, Clarence,” said his mother, as she put the finishing touch 
to little Minnie Custis’s doll, “she has one of the loveliest faces I 
ever saw. Look there,” — holding up the doll for inspection. 

“Which, mamma? Miss Bradford or the doll?” said her son, 
gravely. 

“ She is the most beautiful girl 1 ever saw,” said Alice to Mr. Gra- 
ham, as they walked away, “and I should think lovely in character 
to be so humble and true when she must be surrounded by adulation 
wherever she goes.” 

“If I had never known you,” thought Graham, “Rose would do.” 
But he said nothing, and Alice did not venture to look at his face. 

As Alice saw more of Rose the faults in her education and char- 
acter became more apparent. With naturally a good mind she had 
been permitted by her indulgent mother to study or not, just as she 
pleased; with a warm, loving, generous heart, she united wilfulness 
of temper with a blind devotion to those she loved. Her brother, of 
an easy, indolent temper himself,. had yet the good sense to prescribe 
a few months’ delay and travel on the Continent before he consented 
to her union with a man as much older than herself as Mr. Graham, 
and one whose life, before the war at least, had not been such as he 


170 


ROSE TREVELYAN. 


would like to have seen united with that of his pure young sister. 
To this probation Rose had consented with no very good grace, and 
the desire to prove its folly to her brother had perhaps tended to aid 
her in resisting the temptations to which she had been exposed. Mr. 
Graham and Alice saw that there was now no pretext by which he 
could obtain a release from the engagement. Rose had passed through 
the trial unscathed; her entire devotion to him and confidence in him 
alike made it impossible for him to violate his sacred pledge to her. 

The return of the Trevelyans was the signal for renewed excursion 
parties. The Bradfords had not visited Oxford, and on a mild, Eng- 
lish February day they and the Trevelyans set out to see England’s 
most famous seat of learning — accompanied of course by Mr. Gra- 
ham. They passed Rugby — Rugby, so dear to the memory of the 
great Christian teacher — Banbury Cross, where they bought some 
cakes and pronounced worthy of their reputation, and talking mer- 
rily, in a short time they reached Oxford. 

“Shades of Alfred and Wolsey!” exclaimed Mr. Trevelyan, “smile 
on us now.” Led by him they passed through college, chapel, and 
library in quick succession. 

“ Look,” said Mr. Graham, as they reached the open court, pointing 
to the never-failing ivy hanging on a wall, by the side of which 
clambered a delicate vine; “there is the Virginia creeper side-by-side 
with the English ivy — a rustic maid brought from the forests of Vir- 
ginia to these classic shades.” 

“ I love to see England and Virginia united,” said Colonel Brad- 
ford, “they are truly mother and daughter.” 

“Step-mother, rather,” said Mr. Trevelyan; “but,” looking at his 
watch, “if we are going to Blenheim to-day it is time we were off; 
we can’t fly, even over English roads.” 

“0, but we must see ‘Addison’s Walk’ first,” said Alice, “then we 
will go.” 

Graham drew near to Alice as they walked through the beautiful 
grove. “Here,” said he, “Addison walked and mused, noble thoughts 
coming to him like ‘ angel visitants.’ ” 

“But did he always carry those noble thoughts.into a far higher 
and nobler form — his life?” said Alice. “It is to me one of the sad- 
dest things in life, the difference between the ideal and the real; yet 
that the real may nearly attain the ideal we see from a few charac- 
ters — only a few — in the Bible, and a few in the history of the 
world.” 


ROSE TREVELYAN. 


171 


Rose looked at Graham and wondered if he was not one of the 
chosen few, and Alice’s thoughts reverted to Albert Vaughan, with 
his immaculate purity of character and unyielding self-control. But 
there was no more time for Oxford now, and pausing for a moment 
to contemplate the “ Martyrs’ Monument,” they drove rapidly towards 
Blenheim. 

‘‘A gallant, gay domestic” appeared at an “armorial gateway 
stately,” as at Burleigh House, but in consequence of preparations 
going on for the coming of age of the heir, there was no admittance 
at the Palace to-day. But they were free to drive through the 
noblest park in England — to drink of the pure waters of “Fair Rosa- 
mond’s Well,” — and to contemplate the stately monument sur- 
mounted by a statue of the Great Duke — fit emblem of “ Marlbo- 
rough’s glory and of Britain’s gratitude.” 

“And the trees too, I have heard,” said old Mrs. Trevelyan, “are 
planted to represent the Battle of Blenheim.” 

“Look at that view,” said Colonel Bradford, pointing towards the 
Chiltern hills; “they have views even in England, — beautiful if not 
sublime.” 

“I don’t like to interrupt your raptures,” said Mrs. Trevelyan, 
junior, “but we must leave in time to stop at Woodstock and get 
some gloves. I hear they are the best in England.” 

“To think of associating Woodstock with gloves!'' said Mr. Tre- 
velyan. “Miss Bradford — Rose — you see how romance is lost in 
married life. Before we were married my wife would have talked of 
nothing but Scott’s novel of Woodstock.” 

“A mere marital evasion to keep me from getting the gloves, which 
you must learn to understand, girls,” said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

“We wish to carry away some relic from every place we visit, and 
I don’t know what is better than gloves from Woodstock,” said old 
Mrs. Trevelyan. The gentlemen laughed, and the ladies agreed with 
her. 

As they drove back to Oxford the conversation turned on the life 
and character of the great Duke of Marlborough. “ His life lacked 
one thing,” said Mr. Graham, “ the influence of a woman of the high- 
est stamp; and that his character would have been peculiarly amena- 
ble to such influence is shown by his devotion to his ambitious and 
passionate wife.” 

“ I did not know that a great man needed a woman to help him,” 
said Rose, timidly. 


172 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


“Indeed he does,” said Mr. Graham; “what do you think of it, 
Miss Alice ? ” 

“That she can most help him by not sitting down in blind devo- 
tion at his feet,” said Alice, “but by using her own mind and con- 
science in search of right, and by gently maintaining her own views 
when sjie differs from him. And not closing her eyes to his faults 
but showing them to him, and exerting all ‘harmonious influences’ 
to get him to subdue them.” 

“But if she loved him I should not think she would see his faults,” 
said Rose. 

“Ah, my dear, you will get over that,” said old Mrs. Trevelyan. 

“Which would show the truest love. Rose,” said Alice, “for a wife 
first to endeavor to bring her own character up to perfection, and 
then to elevate her husband’s, or to go on her way hoping that he 
will think she has no fault and striving to think that he has none?” 

Rose made no reply; she seemed to be thinking intently, but Gra- 
ham turned his face towards Alice radiant with an inner light. 

They reached Leamington about dark, and with an agreement to 
visit Stratford the next day, parted for the night. Alice found a 
letter awaiting her from Albert Vaughan. 


CHAPTER XI. 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Alice’s letter, which she handed to her brother on reading, was as 
follows: 

Theo. Seminary, Virginia, 
January 25, 1866. 

My dear Alice : 

Although you are due me a letter I will write again, thinking 
it possible you did not receive my last, or that your reply may be 
lost. I have entered on hard work this year, trying to compress the 
labor of three years into one, and gather up the scattered fragments 
of knowledge hitherto acquired and insert them in their proper place. 
The life here is charming; I have never enjoyed any life so much, — 
the serene, elevated atmosphere of the place, such a contrast to that 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


173 


of the war! I think Doctor Sparrow one of the ablest minds this or 
any other country has produced in modern times; and what is still 
better for his pupils, he has the art of awakening their own minds 
and enabling them to think for themselves. 1 see Aristotle and 
Butler — to say nothing of the Bible — in a new light since I have sat 
at his feet. We live in a field of controversy — the students discuss 
all sorts of questions; but I trust that our weapons are not carnal, 
but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds. May 
each of us go forth well-armed and equipped for the battle. 

I had a letter the other day from Mr. Moore; he is not strong 
enough now for his usual long rides and has concluded to settle down 
and take charge of a little church in his own parish. He will do 
good as long as he lives; such a man I have never known, in truth, 
purity, self-control. God grant I may be like him. Mr. Moore says 
the people on Morotock speak of calling me for their minister, so my 
life’s work may end where my life began — at the old home now in 
ashes. You must excuse a short letter as I have scarcely a moment 
for correspondence. Write to me soon. My love to your brother 
and family. God bless you, and keep you “unspotted from the 
world.” As ever, your friend and guardian, 

Albert Vaughan. 

“Not much for a lover,” my young lady reader will say, curling 
her pretty lip. Yes, my dear, but some time you will learn that 
some men’s little is better than other men’s much. Alice felt re-as- 
sured on reading it; hope’s long lethargy was broken; the spring- 
time of life had come again, and fresh buds and flowers sprang 
suddenly into existence. He had received that letter, and forgiven 
her weakness; his reply was lost — or could it be that he had never 
received her letter? Any way it was all right now; he wrote as 
formerly, and if he did not know she would tell him all hereafter. 
And Cooleemee — beloved Cooleemee — her wanderings might yet cease 
there. 

Early the next morning found a large party from Leamington 
dashing over the beautiful roads towards the birth-place and grave 
of Shakspeare, — the Bradfords, Mr. Graham, Helen Walker, the Tre- 
velyans, Mrs. Custis and little daughter. Memory was busy in the 
minds of several of the party in recalling the scenes of two hundred 
years before, the very name — Charlecote — near which they passed, 
vividly bringing up recollections of Shakspeare’s youth. 

“I was at Stratford once on the occasion of an Agricultural Fair,” 
said Mr. Graham, “and I think the good people were astonished to 
find that I would not remain to attend the Fair, after seeing the home 
and grave of Shakspeare.” 


174 


STRATFOBD-ON-AVON. 


“I think it would have been more sensible if you had,” said Mr. 
Trevelyan; “Shakspeare, I don’t doubt, would have attended the 
Fair.” 

“Yes, and seen a Falstaff, a Hal, and many a pretty maiden there,” 
said Mr. Graham, thoughtfully; “he would have seen the real and 
the possible. 0 the wonders of that man’s mind! with all that has 
been written of him it is yet terra incognita to us.” 

They stopped at a little old-fashioned inn in Stratford, intending to 
give the day to Shakspeare, and were shown into a room in which 
hung a picture of Washington Irving. From the inn they walked 
to the birth-place of Shakspeare. Who that has seen it can forget 
it? The little plain house in which the “ myriad -mind ” first saw the 
light; the common “living room” with its huge fire-place, around 
which gathered the family on winter evenings two hundred years ago. 
And among them in a corner — his little soiled hands clasped over his 
patched knee, listening to the conversation of his elders, and anon 
joining in the merriment of the other children — a little boy of lofty 
brow and eyes of wonderful depth and brightness. 

“I wonder Shakspeare did not break his neck down these steps,” 
said Mr. Trevelyan, as they wound their way up the little dark stair- 
case leading to the room in which Shakspeare was born. 

“‘A Mecca of the mind,”.’ said Mr. Graham to Alice, pointing to 
the names on the walls, above, around, below, so thickly-covered 
there seemed scarcely room for another. 

“ It is as interesting for that,” said Alice, “ as for being the birth- 
place of Shakspeare; with what emotions must Sir Walter Scott and 
Byron have stood here.” 

“And myriads of others,” said Mr. Graham. “We are all more 
alike than we seem, — he who speaks from his own consciousness 
speaks to the heart of mankind.” 

“ I wonder how Shakspeare differed from Charlie when he was a 
baby,” said Mrs. Bradford, in a confidential tone to her husband. 

“No doubt they were much alike,” said Colonel Bradford gravely; 
“ each went ‘ mewling and puking in his nurse’s arms.’ ” 

“This room would hardly have held two beds comfortably,” said old 
Mrs. Trevelyan, in a tone of mathematical calculation. 

“Shakspeare then, I reckon, slept on a pallet,” added her son, in 
the same tone. 

“Shall we go to Anne Hathaway’s Cottage?” asked Mrs. Custis, a 
refined, lady-like woman of quiet, reserved manners. 


STKATFORD-ON-AVON. 175 

“I don’t in the least care to go,” said Mrs. Trevelyan, junior; 
‘‘Shakspeare didn’t like her so much, and why should we?” 

“ Let us visit the church then,” said Mr. Trevelyan, who cared little 
for sight-seeing, *‘and then take our lunch on the banks of the 
Avon.” 

“Eating — and Shakspeare — for shame!” said his wife. 

“My dear, you totally misunderstand Shakspeare,” said her lord; 
“no one appreciated roast beef and good ale more than he.” 

“ I wonder if Anne Hathaway was pretty,” said Rose, a little con- 
sciously. 

“Beautiful,” said Mr. Graham, “but that was all; she was not a 
woman to influence Shakspeare.” 

“ I think men more to blame than their wives in most difiiculties,” 
said old Mrs. Trevelyan, a little curtly. 

“No doubt they are,” said Mr. Graham, “but I second Mr. Trevel- 
yan’s motion to go to the church.” 

Gathering a few of the leaves from a vase of flowers and evergreens 
which stood in the room — “all of which and all the flowers men- 
tioned in Shakspeare’s Works being cultivated in the garden adjoin- 
ing the house,” said the guide, the party forthwith repaired to the 
church. Their way lay through one of those lovely old church-yards 
so common in England. 

“And many a holy text around she strewa. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die.” 

“ Gray again,” said Mr. Graham, as they paused to read an inscrip- 
tion half-buried in moss. 

“ ‘Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude tore fathers of the hamlet sleep.' ” 

Entering the church they wei*e met by the fragrance of ever- 
greens, the Christmas decorations still shedding their green radiance 
around, as if to embalm the memory of Shakspeare. At the head of 
the stone which covered the mortal remains of earth’s Immortal, lay 
a mat for visitors to stand on to prevent the wearing of the rock by 
the footsteps which pressed it. Looking down from the wall of the 
church on the grave is the bust of Shakspeare, placed there seven 
years after his death. 

All stood for a few moments in silence — the gentlemen with un- 
covered heads — looking on the grave of Shakspeare — and then scat- 
tered to different parts of the church. Alice felt an irresistible 


176 


STRATFORD-OK-AVOl^. 


longing to kiss the grave, and lingered behind till she found an op- 
portunity to do so. Kneeling beside the cold stone she paid the 
womanly triWte which she felt he would have ^ prized, and the long- 
ing was stilled. None had missed her but Mr. Graham; from afar in 
the shadow of a pillar he saw her act. 

When Alice rejoined the party Colonel Bradford was reading aloud 
Shakspeare’s will, a copy of which hangs in the vestry-room. Tears 
rushed to her eyes at the words committing his soul to God through 
faith in Christ. Oh ! truthful as he was, could that have been a mere 
form? 

“Let us go out now on the Avon and talk about Shakspeare,” said 
Mr. Graham, looking at Alice’s bright eyes and suffused cheeks. 

“ I stipulate for the lunch first and Shakspeare afterwards,” said 
Mr. Trevelyan. 

In the smooth, green, grassy church-yard on the banks of the fa- 
mous little river — “no bigger than a cweek,” said Charlie — they sat 
down to their repast. It was a fine picture; one that the South 
might well be pleased to represent her abroad. Mr. Graham’s grand 
brow, eloquent eye and winnings lip; Alice’s thoughtful, spirituelle 
face and figure; Rose’s blooming beaut}"; Colonel Bradford’s hand- 
some face and knightly bearing; his wife’s gentle loveliness; Mr. 
Trevelyan’s gentleman-like appearance and quaint, humorous ex- 
pression; the matronly beauty and grace of his wife; Mrs. Custis’s 
quiet dignity; old Mrs. Trevelyan, in her widow’s cap and black silk, 
and face tranquil as a moon-lit landscape, a beautiful picture of se- 
rene old age; and as if to make the picture complete, Charlie’s bright 
face and bounding joy, and little Minnie Custis’s transparent skin, 
golden hair, and deep-blue eyes. Perfect it looked to Helen W alker, 
with the back-ground of sky, river and grass, the tall, gray spire and 
ivy-mantled walls of the old church overshadowing it, as she moved 
to a little distance and gazed upon it. 

“To think of Shakspeare’s romping here when a boy!” said Alice, 
“ I can scarcely eat.” 

“No doubt we have a much more vivid conception of him than the 
people who live here,” said Mr. Graham, “and it is natural that we 
should. The common-place and every-day life does not intervene 
with us as with them. This is our only association with the place, 
and we go simply back to the days of Shakspeare.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Walker, who now rejoined the group, “how much 
do you think about the wild Indian who once roamed over your woods? 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 177 

But were I to visit America my thoughts would be continually filled 
with him.” 

“Who is your favorite among Shakspeare’s female characters?” 
said Mr. Graham to Alice. 

“Cordelia,” said Alice; “there is something so beautiful in her rev- 
erence for her father in his adversity — her quick sympathy with him 
in his fallen estate: 

• How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty ?’ 

Cordelia is the most perfect character, but perhaps Desdemona is the 
most womanly. I have always felt it to be one of Shakspeare’s most 
exquisite touches in woman’s nature — his making Desdemona say 
that she killed herself. But Cordelia would not have said it because 
it was untrue.” 

“We see Cordelia and Desdemona from different points of view,” 
said Mr. Graham; “one under the influence of filial devotion which, 
however strong, is not the strongest feeling of woman’s nature; the 
other under the influence of the love that is stronger than death.” 

“I must put in a word for Queen Katharine,” said Helen Walker; 
“nothing can be more lively or saint-like than her character. There 
is an ethereal beauty and spirituality in her death-scene which alone 
would place Shakspeare beyond all other poets.” 

“And there is another of those wondrous touches portraying his 
knowledge of woman’s nature,” said Mr. Graham, “‘I am old^ my 
lords.’” 

“ For my part, I am rather partial to poor Ophelia,” said Colonel 
Bradford. 

“Op/ie/ta.'” exclaimed Helen; “Ruskin says she is Shakspeare’s 
only weak woman, and it is because she fails Hamlet at the critical 
moment that all the catastrophe follows.” 

“You allude, I presume, to ‘Sesame and Lilies,’” said Mr. Graham. 
“I have read that lecture of Ruskin’s and agree with him that woman 
is the guide of man — when they are such women as Shakspeare’s and 
Scott’s heroines.” 

“ I like the Bible word better,” said Alice, “ and it gives the truer 
sense — that woman is a halp meet for man, not a guided 

“ Rather an uncertain guide, I should think,” said Mr. Trevelyan, 
dryly. 

“God only is man’s guide,” said Alice, too eager to direct Mr. Gra- 
ham’s thoughts aright to notice the interruption; “the image and 
glory of God, none can guide him on earth. Woman is the glory of 


178 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


the man,” — and she turned and looked at Rose, who stood by with 
an expression half-interested, and half-conscious that the conversa- 
tion was beyond her depth. 

‘‘And a fairer creature never showed forth his glory,” said Mr. 
Graham in a low voice, struck for the moment by the Hebe-like 
beauty of his betrothed. 

“But isn’t this a digression?” said Miss Walker; “let us return to 
Shakspeare. Mr. Graham, what think you of Ruskin’s assertion that 
Shakspeare has no heroes — only heroines ? ” 

“That he is right,” said Mr. Graham, “if we leave out Henry V., 
whose character, as Ruskin says, is exaggerated for stage purposes, 
there is not a hero in Shakspeare, according to Miss Alice’s idea of a 
hero — a man living to the glory of God.” 

“Shakspeare has no such character as General Lee,” said Colonel 
Bradford; “ no such Christian soldier had lived up to Shakspeare’s 
time.” 

“ It is interesting to think,” said Alice, “ what influence the Ref- 
ormation must have had on Shakspeare’s mind. It is evident that he 
was familiar with the Bible. The original of the ‘undiscovered 
country, from whose bourne no traveller returns’ is in Job; and in 
Macbeth — 

‘ The king-becoraing graces, 

As justice, verity, temperance, stableness. 

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, 

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,’ 

are found only in the Bible.” 

“What interests you most in Shakspeare?” said Mr. Graham to 
Alice. 

“His great thoughts,” replied Alice; “and yet when I look into 
them I see they are only great truths, familiar to us all. But Shaks- 
peare gives them their right place, and sets them forth so wondrously. 
I do not remember to have seen it noticed as one of Shakspeare’s 
finest passages, but I cannot describe the impression made on me 
when I came suddenly on the words in Henry V.’s lament over the 
treason of Lord Scroop. Do you remember it? After a long enu- 
meration of his excellencies, winding up by saying that his fall has 
left a kind of blot to endue the best men afterwards with suspicion, he 
concludes: 

‘ I will weep for thee. 

For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like 
Another fall of man.’ 

What could so forcibly set forth the fall of a good man ? To me it 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 179 

is superior, because simpler — less labored than ‘ Earth felt the wound’ — 
of Milton. 

“It is in the application of old and simple truths that genius makes 
itself felt,” said Mr. Graham, “and Shakspeare had that instinctive 
use of words — that union of great thoughts with noble words — 
which shows language to be God-given. 

‘ To be, or not to be, that is the question,’ ” 

“Surely no man was ever so wonderful in the use of adjectives,” 
said Colonel Bradford; “with others they rather weaken than add 
force to expression, but listen to this from the Duke to Viola: — 

‘ For, boy, however we do praise ourselves 
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm , 

More wandering, wavering, sooner lost and wou 
Than woman’s are.’ ” 

“ 'I think it well, my lord,’ ” said Alice. 

“ Shakspeare’s men are real, his women ideal — unless we except a 
few,” said Mr. Trevelyan, who was peeling an orange. 

“What treason is that you are uttering?” said his wife, approach- 
ing, — “still talking about Shakspeare? For my part, I think Cleo- 
patra the most natural character he has. I always feel like whipping 
anybody who brings me bad news.” 

‘‘And her envy of ‘that still Octavia,’” said Alice. 

“ Shakspeare evidently didn’t believe in women’s talking much,” 
said Mr. Trevelyan; “when he wants to praise a woman he makes 
her say little, and that in a low voice.” 

“ He put long speeches in their mouths, notwithstanding,” said 
Miss Walker. 

“ ‘All’s not gold that glitters,’ ” — isn’t that Shakspeare ? ” said old 
Mrs. Trevelyan, who was playing with little Minnie Custis. 

“Yes, mother,” said Mr. Trevelyan, “we get our proverbs from 
Shakspeare.” 

“How wonderful he must have been to have written about so many 
things!” said Rose, half-blu shingly essaying her first remark on 
Shakspeare. 

“Yes,” said Colonel Bradford, “his mind is like a boundless land- 
scape interspersed with lofty mountains, rushing streams and smiling 
valleys — and extending to worlds beyond.” 

“One of the deepest criticisms that I have ever seen mi Shaks- 
peare,” said Mr. Graham, “is from Goethe. Speaking of Hamlet he 
says that the best way to understand him is to go back to what he 


180 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


was before the blight of sorrow and suspicion fell upon him — in his 
beautiful, unclouded youth.” 

“ That is too deep for any of us, unless for you and Miss Alice,” 
said Mr. Trevelyan, “for my part I give it up.” 

“It certainly would require an effort of imagination, and study, for 
me to give an opinion on it,” said Alice. 

“I recollect my surprise,” said Colonel Bradford, “to find how 
much Shakspeare was indebted to Plutarch for ‘Antony and Cleo- 
patra.’ Those words, ‘infinite variety,’ applied to Cleopatra, which I 
thought one of Shakspeare’s wonderful expressions, are Plutarch’s.” 

“It is in the harmony and balance of Shakspeare’s faculties that 
he is transcendent,” said Mr. Graham; “ other men have equalled him 
in this or that faculty — but who has equalled him as a whole ? As 
Napoleon said when he met Goethe, '‘Voila Vhomme 

“That had been said before Napoleon, on seeing a greater than 
Goethe,” said Alice. “ Pilate said ‘ Behold the man !’ ” 

“How long will you all be talking of Shakspeare?” said Mrs. Tre- 
velyan, approaching with little Minnie Custis in her arms. “Look 
at this child — Shakspeare never dreamed a lovelier poem than she is.” 

None of the party thought Mrs. Trevelyan far wrong as they 
looked at the child nestling on her shoulder; yet it was not so much 
the exquisite tints and faultless symmetry of her features, as the ex- 
pression that flitted like sunshine and shadow over her face. Charlie, 
who had contemplated her for a while in mute wonderment on meet- 
ing that morning, and who had gradually grown so familiar as to 
administer a pinch or two by way of experiment, now appeared 
bounding on the greensward, and was suddenly brought to a halt by 
a precipitate fall. An expression of suffering painful to behold ap- 
peared for a moment on little Minnie’s face, succeeded by a burst of 
joy which lit up the child’s whole face as Charlie sprang up and with 
a shout ran on. 

“That child’s face is a prophecy.” said* Mr. Graham; “what a his- 
tory it will be twenty-five years from now.” 

With lingering looks behind our party left the home and grave of 
Shakspeare. 


ON THE SHORE. 


181 


CHAPTER XII. 

ON THE SHORE. 

The latter part of February Colonel Bradford proposed that they 
should go down to the southern part of England, near the sea-shore, 
and remain for ten days or a fortnight. His home-party, wanting 
some change, eagerly assented — Alice encouraging the proposition on 
condition that Rose and Helen be invited to accompany them. The 
two girls were delighted at the prospect, and Mr. Walker, afterwards 
concluding to join them, the party set off in fine spirits one bright 
day near the close of February. A light snow, which had fallen a 
day or two previous, gradually melted away as they approached the 
ocean, revealing a landscape clad in summer radiance and beauty. 
They passed Bath — Bristol — Exeter — the journey made specially in- 
teresting by the presence of Mr. Walker, who pointed out every 
locality of interest, — the birth-place of Robert Hall, the Cheddar 
Hills associated with the memory of the ^'‘greatest man in England” 
in her day — Hannah More, and the palatial homes of the lesser aris- 
tocracy of England. They reached Dawlish in the afternoon and 
found the usual neat and comfortable English lodgings, and the ocean 
rolling and breaking at their feet. 

The next morning all agreed, as the place was picturesque and 
striking in the highest degree, their rooms charming, the fare deli- 
cious — best of bread, purest of butter and freshest of eggs — and as 
for the English beverage, black tea, and Devonshire cream — the lat- 
ter unknown to the Southerners before — they were truly nectar and 
ambrosia! In short, with all these delightful surroundings, Dawlish 
must be their resting-place for the present. Those walks on the sea- 
shore! — sometimes picking up shells, oftener looking out on the ocean 
and repeating Byron’s or Bryant’s lines, or talking of subjects far 
away of little connection with land or sea — are they not written in 
the chronicles of Alice’s memory? And how is it with you, Helen, 
across the sea? 

Generally during these walks Rose and Mr. Graham were left to- 
gether, till one evening Rose hastily entered the room where Alice 
sat alone looking from her window, and throwing herself on the 
fioor, put her head in her lap, and burst into tears. 

“What is it, darling?” said Alice, stooping to kiss and caress her. 

“ 0 cousin Alice,” said Rose, sobbing, “ do not leave me alone with 


182 


ON THE SHORE. 


him any more till I read and improve myself; he will be perfectly 
disgusted with me, I know so little.” 

“But you can learn, Rose,” said Alice, smoothing the beautiful 
brown tresses back from the forehead, and looking down on the lovely, 
sorrowful face; “suppose we have a conversazione^ you and Helen and 
I, in this room every evening for an hour, and discuss literary sub- 
jects. And propose to Mr. .Graham to read some book that he will 
select with you. I am sure you will be a brigh t, apt pupil.” And Rose, 
soothed and cheered, lifted her face to Alice’s, smiling through tears. 

Helen readily agreed to Alice’s proposition, and evening after even- 
ing the three girls shut themselves for an hour in the pleasant room 
overlooking the ocean, ostensibly for their own gratification, but 
really for Rose’s education and improvement. Alice threw herself 
into the work with all her native ardor and enthusiasm. She saw in 
Rose fine material for development and progress, aided by a sincere 
and earnest desire to “grow unto perfection,” not only mental but 
moral, for to Alice they were inseparably connected in the idea of 
education. 

In Rose, the woman’s heart was awakening the whole nature to 
activity and thoughtfulness, and in Alice the desire of elevating and 
improving Rose, and the yearning through her to help another, 
prompted her to use every effort to fit Rose for the work that lay be- 
fore her — help meet for a man at once so gifted and unsettled as Gra- 
ham. Alice’s human heart of flesh was not yet changed so fully into 
the charity that seeketh not her own, as not to feel it to be some trial 
that Rose should accept this work entirely as a matter of course. 

Mr. Graham judged something of what was going on by Rose’s 
sparkling face, and, in fact, rapidly-growing improvement; but he 
said nothing, only watching Alice as an astronomer would watch the 
appearance of a new planet in the sky — or a philosopher the “miss- 
ing link” between angels and men. 

Things went on thus for some days, till one morning Rose sur- 
prised Graham by asking him to read to her from some favorite book 
of his. “I know that I am very ignorant and childish,” she said, 
lifting her eyes appealingly to his, “but I wish to learn; I hope that 

“ ‘ the full sum of me 

Is sum of something; which, to term in gross, 

Is an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpracticed: 

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn; and happier than this. 

She is not bred so dull, but she can learn; 

Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed 
As from her lord, her governor, her king.’ ” 


ON THE SHORE. 183 

“My little Rose quoting Shakspeare,” said Graham in pleased sur- 
prise, “how is this?” 

“That I am determined to try and be worthy of you,” said Rose, 
with a sob in her voice, “as worthy as I can be. Cousin Alice is 
helping me; she says she will teach me all she knows. And her 
knowledge is so beautiful — so different from that in schools. She 
says that she learned history from Scott’s novels and rhetoric from 
Milton and Tennyson. And it is so delightful to have her teach me, 
and help me to be less unworthy of you,” said Rose, now sobbing out- 
right, and dropping her head on Graham’s shoulder, who pasvsed his 
arm around her and stooped to kiss her brow, for the moment too 
much moved to speak. 

After this, day after day, in their walks or drives, or seated amid 
the picturesque hills on the coast, with the ocean at their feet, Gra- 
ham produced some favorite volume, or repeated some fine passage to 
Rose, and was surprised at the quickness of her intellect and the 
depths of her sensibility. Never master had a pupil more docile, at- 
tentive and devoted; and but for Alice’s watchfulness and caution. 
Rose would have surrendered every faculty to the impression Graham 
chose to make upon her. 

“Follow your own sweet, womanly instinct. Rose,” Alice would 
say; “Mr. Graham will find that it is worth more sometimes than his 
man’s reason. And he will love and respect you more, darling, and 
you can more truly help him than if you sit down in blind, unques- 
tioning obedience at his feet.” 

“My good angel!” said Rose, rushing to Alice in an ecstacy of de- 
light a few days after this conversation took place, “you are right as 
you are in everything— he says that his pupil is becoming his teacher.” 

“And this,” said Alice to Helen, as they walked on the sea-shore 
and spoke of Rose’s words, “ this is my reward. 0 Helen ! with all 
our sinfulness and weakness from what evil may we save ourselves 
and what good may we do in our sojourn below, by keeping a high 
aim, by striving to do the thing that is simply right. And am [ 
not hdppier — 0 so much happier! — than if I had yielded to tempta- 
tion — been false to him — false to my own sense of what is right?” 

“But who is like you!” said Helen, throwing her arm around her 
friend; “Alice, I solemnly declare, when I look upon what you are 
doing I am filled with wonder. With all your imagination and feel- 
ing, true to a lover — if lover he is at all — cold as an iceberg; resist- 
ing the love of the most fascinating man I ever met; and not only 


184 


ON THE SHORE. 


that, but elevating that little silly betrothed of his into a true and 
noble woman — the last thing that most women would be capable of. 
No, Alice — take your hand from before my lips — if such women as 
you are common in the Southern States of America there is not such 
a race of people upon earth — slave-holders though you were.” 

“And these things are not what I would naturally be capable of,” 
said Alice; “of great sacrifices for those I love, and of passionate de- 
votion I would be — at least for a time. But Helen, you know to 
what all that is highest and most enduring in me is due, — to relig- 
ion — to Grod — to that new life that entered my soul when I became a 
Christian. It is not always easy, but I try not to think of it, but to 
keep busy and enjoy what God gives me — you, one of His best bless- 
ings, my darling.” 

The next day they drove down to Torquay, the road lying along 
the rugged coast overlooking the ocean. Leaving Mrs. Bradford and 
Rose, attended by Colonel Bradford and Mr. Graham, to visit some 
shops in the town, Alice and Helen, accompanied by Mr. Walker, 
walked up the hill overlooking Torbay, and soon reached the summit. 
Mr. Walker stood apart, contemplating the town and occasionally 
sweeping the horizon with a spy-glass. Before thera lay the bay, 
blue as a summer’s sky, sleeping in calm, unruffled beauty in the arms 
of the encircling hills. It was a moment never to be forgotten. 
Neither of the girls spoke, but each felt the soul drawn almost sen- 
sibly to that of the other; something of that Divine Love which will 
be when we are one in Christ beyond the life of sin and sorrow and 
change — and which is felt in rare moments here. 

The silence was broken by Mr. Walker’s approach, spy-glass in 
hand. 

“This is the spot on which William of Orange landed when he 
came to England,” said he; “I suppose you are familiar with English 
history. Miss Bradford.” 

“Not ov-erly,” said Alice, smiling; “but I know and admire Wil- 
liam of Orange through Macaulay — I devoured his history as if it 
had been a romance.” 

“ Yes, Macaulay is the first person who made English history in- 
teresting,” said Mr. Walker; “his style is very attractive and his 
judgment good, though he thinks too much of making a point and 
deals too much in antithesis; but he lacks a soul of fire and earnest- 
ness. I prefer Carlyle to him.” 

“I do too,” said Alice; “it seems to me that much of Macaulay is 


PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. , 185 

mere rhetoric or word-painting — and yet his pictures attract you 
greatly. There is something so beautiful to me in the way in which 
Bishop Ken appears in his history— at the death-bed of Charles II — 
and the night before the execution of the Duke of Monmouth — ^just 
where a Christian minister should be.” 

“ I think that is due rather to Bishop Ken’s character than to Ma- 
caulay,” said Mr. Walker, smiling, “but there is something in the 
way in which Macaulay sets it forth — and more, perhaps, to your 
seeing it,” — added he, turning to meet the rest of the party who now 
appeared on the hill. 

They walked around the summit of the hill, looking at the bay, 
the city at their feet and the picturesque villas among the hills — in 
one of which a few years later one of England’s most distinguished 
sons* yielded his last breath, and then slowly commenced their de- 
scent homewards. 

“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” said Alice to Helen in a low 
voice as they walked down the hill, “ but I feel a yeariring in parting 
from Torbay, as if it were human.” 

“ ‘Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former 
shall not be remembered, neither shall it come into you mind,”’ re- 
peated Helen, in the same tone. Alice only replied by a pressure of 
the hand and a look into Helen’s eyes. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 

On returning to Leamington Colonel Bradford’s family was agree- 
ably surprised by a visit from Miss Hamilton, the lady of whom Mrs. 
Courtenay had spoken as being formerly a Maid of Honor to the 
Queen. She came to enquire about Southern friends of whom she 
had lost sight during the war, and left with a cordial invitation to 
the Bradfords to visit her. 

Alice was much attracted by Miss Hamilton’s wide intelligence, 
close observation, and canny (she was of Scotch lineage) good sense. 


♦ Bulwer. 


186 PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 

Mrs. Bradford did not think her equal to “Virginia people, but who 
was?’’ Maggie Roy, who was in the room with Charlie, mentally 
pronounced her “just like English people,” — whether that was a com- 
pliment or not we must enter more fully into Maggie’s opinion of the 
English to judge, — whilst Master Charlie had an intuitive perception 
that something inimical to the free exercise of his will was holding 
him in check in Miss Hamilton’s presence. 

The aristocratic old lady had sat on the knee of George III. in her 
childhood; received a pension from Mr. Pitt for her father’s — Lord 
George Hamilton’s merits; was intimate with Lady Byron, whom 
she spoke of as the “chief blessing of her earlier years;” had resided 
twenty years at Windsor Castle, and given up her place there in de- 
fence of Southern slavery. If every old person is a link to the past, 
capable of revealing secrets of family and neighborhood life — trage- 
dies and comedies which have found no place in written lore — what 
an object of interest is that person whose early life and associations 
are connected with romance and history? What visions rose before 
Alice’s mind of struggle and sacrifice — of genius and — alas! sin and 
suffering — as she looked at Miss Hamilton and thought of her con- 
nection with George III. and Lady Byron. 

In April Colonel and Mrs. Bradford decided to go to Paris for “ the 
season,” May being the season in Paris. Like a true man, Colonel 
Bradford was growing weary of an idle life and beginning to long for 
home. 

“We must not go back without seeing something of the Conti- 
nent,” said he, “and Paris is not only France^ but she leads the con- 
tinent of Europe.” 

“But Italy — Germany — Scotland — Switzerland — are we not to see 
them?” said Alice. 

“ You must come back on your bridal tour and visit them, Alice,” 
said the Colonel ; “ that may be some inducement for you to get mar- 
ried. As for Kate, I know her world is Charlie and myself; she 
hasn’t yet discovered all the depths of that young scamp’s intellect. 
And besides, you must know that there is some end to the purse of 
an ex-Confederate. Home we must go this summer or fall.” 

“I shall be satisfied if I see Paris, and the Empress,” said Mrs. 
Bradford. 

“And there is no country in Europe to be compared with Eng- 
land,” said Colonel Bradford; “we will return and sail from Liver- 
pool.” 


PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 


187 


“I am sorry you will not see England in May,” said Helen, when 
Alice announced their intention of leaving, “when the hawthorn is 
blooming; it is our loveliest season.” 

“I may see England some other time in May,” said Alice. “Dar- 
ling, I have noticed when people are thrown together in life so as to 
influence each other they are apt to meet again.” 

Mr. Graham and Rose were now a great deal together — reading, 
walking, or riding daily; and it was generally understood that their 
marriage was to take place in a short time. 

“We will join you before long in Paris,” whispered Rose to Alice 
as they parted; “you know I must get my trousseau in Paris — indeed 
I think it quite possible we shall be married there, for you must be 
present, darling Cousin Alice.” 

“I will see you in Paris in a week or two,” said Mr. Graham, as he 
gave Alice’s hand the frank, cordial pressure of a friend on parting. 

They stopped all night at Dover, at the Lord Warden’s hotel, and 
whilst Colonel Bradford walked out to take a survey of the. Castle, 
Mrs. Bradford and Alice rested in their pretty Frenchy, rather than 
English, apartments, opening into each other, and commanding a 
fine view of the picturesque Castle and town. 

Early the next morning they embarked for France and crossed the 
channel in a brisk gale, which soon effectually put to flight all 
thoughts of the white cliffs of Dover, and “My native land. Good- 
night,” and brought forcibly back the experiences of the Atlantic. 
Mrs. Bradford and Alice were roused from a kind of half-stupor as 
they reached Calais by Charlie’s naioe remark, “We have all throwed 
up our breakfasts,” but were in too uncertain a condition to give 
much attention to Calais; but again oji terra Jirma they soon recov- 
ered health and spirits, and began to look with interest around them. 

“How inferior to England!” was the exclamation of all, as ‘their 
eyes roamed over the landscape. 

“As Mr. Walker says,” said Colonel Bradford, “‘there is no country 
like England, and the Englishman who has never been out of his 
own country knows not half the blessings he enjoys.’” 

As they sped rapidly onward in the growing twilight a huge cross 
loomed up before them, and a little farther on they saw two men 
kissing each other on the cheek a la Franeais — “Two things that in- 
dicate we are in a French and a Roman Catholic country,” said Col- 
onel Bradford. 

They reached Paris a little after night-fall. How lovely it looked! 


188 


PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 


like a Queen the fair city, with its towering masses of white stone 
buildings — the graceful curves of its broad streets — the order, neat- 
ness, taste, everywhere. 

whited sepulchre!’” said Colonel Bradford, as he leaned from 
the window of the hack and looked around; “this Empire must fall, 
for it is rotten at the core.” 

Colonel Bradford had written and engaged rooms at the pleasant 
English Hotel de Lille et d’ Albion, and here our party rested their 
first night in Paris. 

The next day commenced that round of sight-seeing familiar to 
travellers, and again was Alice struck by the immensity of even the 
common-place and practical wonders of the Old World. Mrs. Brad- 
ford, who was a connoisseur in china, proposed that they should 
drive to the china manufactory at Sevres. Alice did not feel inclined 
to see even Sevres china. She would have preferred to stay, and tak- 
ing Charlie and Maggie with her, roam through the garden of the 
Tuiler'ies^ with the gray pile of building contrasting well with the 
green trees and bright flowers, gleaming statues and sparkling fount- 
ains, and look along the Champs Elysees through the Arc de I’Etoile 
to the clear, blue sky beyond. But Mrs. Bradford insisted on her 
going to Sevres and she went, and to her astonishment found, in- 
stead of a magnificent china-shop, a Palace of Art. Fairy cups, from 
which only princes might drink; ethereal vases, of which one only 
would be an heir-loom; beautiful paintings, peculiarly soft and lovely 
on the pure, dazzling china. 

Here were also magnificent tables which would grace the palaces 
of kings, busts lovelier than marble, and specimens of china from all 
parts of the world; from the weird, fantastic groups which Bernard 
de Palissy burnt his furniture to create, to the crude work of new 
peoples. But what most of all touched the heart of each member of 
our party was a tobacco-stand, labelled “Tabac de Virginie.” 

“Known and reverenced for her men and her tobacco over the 
world,” said Colonel Bradford, lifting his hat as they paused before 
it, “to say nothing of her women^ too modest to be appreciated as 
they deserve.” 

On Sunday our party attended the English and American churches. 
They specially liked the chapel of the English Embassy, and once 
within its sacred walls, from “The Lord is in his holy temple; let all 
the earth keep silence before him,” through the holy prayers and 
grand anthems of the Liturgy, all Paris, with its tails and pleasures. 


PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 189 

its glories and sufferings, was shut out, and they might have fancied 
themselves in the little chapel near Cooleemee. 

“ Poor people who have no Sunday,” said Mrs. Bradford, as they 
were on their way to church one Sunday morning, and observed a 
man at work on a house near the street. 

“I don’t care much for shop-windows, generally,” said Alice, “but 
it seems to me I can hardly keep my eyes out of these that are open 
to-day.” 

“As Graham says,” said Colonel Bradford, “ the devil is waiting to 
meet you at every corner in Paris: 

“ ‘That he should e’er come nearer us, 

Mair’s the pity,’ ” 

added he from his favorite Burns. 

‘'The Commandments never impressed me as they do here,” said 
Alice; “what a contrast between their beauty and spirituality and 
this city, so fair without but within full of all iniquity.” 

“I heard an Englishman say the other day,” said Colonel Brad- 
ford, “ that the Liturgy has been translated into French and used in 
one of the chapels of Paris, and that he has seen French officers in 
tears during its progress. He says that the French are yearning for 
something better than their religion; ‘the heart of Mary’ cannot 
satisfy a soul made in the image of God.” 

‘‘ Where is this service held?” asked Alice; “I should like so much 
to attend it.” 

•• It has been stopped by order of the government,” said Colonel 
Bradford: 

“What a lovely afternoon!” said Colonel Bradford, a few days af- 
ter the above conversation; “we must drive in the Bois de Boulogne, 
— tout le monde will be there. I will go and engage a carriage while 
you dress.” 

“Don’t come too soon,” said Mrs. Bradford, “for 1 want us all to 
look our best; if the Empress loves sunny skies she will surely be 
out this afternoon.” 

An hour later. Colonel and Mrs. Bradford, with Alice and Charlie, 
all attired in their new Parisian suits, took their seats in an open 
carriage and drove rapidly in the direction of the Bois. It was one 
of those soft yet bracing days which belong alike to May and Octo- 
ber, when the rays of the sun are tempered by the cool air, giving 
warmth and exhilaration to the atmosphere. 

As they drove round the many-statued garden of the Tuileries, by 


190 


PAKIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 


the spouting animals which were Charlie’s delight, beyond the Egyp- 
tian obelisk, and on through the Champs Elysees, catching glimpses 
of the soft, blue sky through the beautiful Arc de I’Etoile, vast num- 
bers of carriages preceded and followed them, on their way to the 
Bois. Reaching the principal thoroughfares, a scene such as was be- 
held nowhere on earth at that time opened before them. Fairy-land 
as the Bofe de Boulogne was, with its trees and shrubbery, its cas- 
cades and lakes, its grottoes and parterres — in short, everything that 
could give beauty and variety to the scene — it was now far eclipsed 
by man and his attendant trappings of horse and equipage. 

Our party drove slowly — there was no possibility of proceeding in 
any other way — to about the centre of the thoroughfare, and then 
looked behind and before them. As far as the eye could reach in 
each direction stretched lines of elegant carriage* — the most of 
them open — with gayly-comparisoned horses. Seated in them were 
the beauty, the fashion, the elegance, of the world; for “the season ” 
in Paris had gathered together visitors from all parts of the globe. 
The graceful Parisian — the lovely American — the bloom and beauty 
of England, were there — and other nationalities which our travellers 
were not so quick to recognize. On either hand rode dissipated-look- 
ing Frenchmen — fine-looking Englishmen — and distinguished-look- 
ing Americans. Occasionally, through the long lines of glittering 
splendor the official dress of a policeman appeared regulating the 
movements of the carriages, while the hose-men scattered their re- 
freshing showers around, making even the dust a subject in Paris. 
Frequently beautiful women, dressed in the most exquisite Parisian 
costume, passed them seated alone in elegant equipages. Alice had 
been long enough in Paris to know what this meant, and with inex- 
pressible sadness she looked upon them. A feeling of expectation 
and interest pervaded the atmosphere. 

“ I wonder what this can be,” said Alice, whose quick, mesmeric 
nature was the first to perceive it — “is the Empress coming?” 

Just then the throng parted, and a beautiful open carriage, with 
fine horses, glittering harness and liveried coachmen, appeared. In 
it sat a fine-looking and magnificently-dressed woman; drapery of 
long folds of heavy blue silk swept around her; from the blue and 
lace parasol to the delicate blue glove, all was in exquisite harmony, 
and contrasting beautifully with the clear complexion and golden hair. 

“It is Cora Pearl,” said Colonel Bradford, in a low voice to his wife, 
“the leader of the demi-nionOey 


PARIS UN^DER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 


191 


Just then a gentleman in a carriage near Colonel Bradford’s lifted 
his hat to her, and returning his bow gracefully as a queen amid sub- 
jects, she passed on. Alice and Mrs. Bradford looked at each other 
in astonishment. 

“Edward,” said Mrs. Bradford, “tell the coachman to take us to 
one of the side-drives.” 

“ Paris is said to be the only place in the world where such women 
are treated with respect,” said Colonel Bradford, as they drove round 
into one of the sequestered parts of the Bois, “but my little Alice 
looks pale — the moral atmosphere of Paris is no place for her.” 

Alice did not reply; she was thinking. All that brilliant pageant 
stood before her. The slow procession — wasn’t it like a funeral 
march? The stately trappings — the purple and fine linen without— 
the decay and corruption within. And what were they following to 
the grave — what dead were they burying out of sight? Faith and 
hope — moral purity — woman’s purity — innocent love — manliness and 
strength — high aims — glorious and righteous action. 

“ 0 for even a war to rouse these people from their death in sin — 
their death in life,” thought Alice; “great traits of character are 
born of war. With all its fearful evils it is better than this outward 
glory and inward corruption.” 

And rapidly Alice’s quick imagination looked for\yard to the end — 
saw the real weakness beneath all that outward show of strength and 
beauty. But it was to the unmasked world beyond that she looked. 
She dreamed not that the judgments of Giod would fall on that fair 
scene so soon. That a few brief springs only would come and go ere 
that Eden of nature and art would be despoiled; those fresh, green 
trees felled to the earth; the rude tramp of soldiers on those delicate 
parterres; those fairy bowers converted into a slaughter-pen; and 
that gorgeous assemblage — where ?" 

“Alice,” said her brother, interrupting her thoughts, “you must 
not think that everybody in the Bois sympathized with that shame- 
less scene.” 

“They should not stay there then and encourage it by their pres- 
ence,” said Alice, “ but leave as we did.” 

“Americans are too fond of Paris,” said Colonel Bradford; “there 
is a deep satire in what Oliver Wendell Holmes says, ‘Good Ameri- 
cans when they die go to Paris.’ ” 

L' Emperatice et 1' Ernpereiir,'' said the coachman, in obedience to 
orders received to look out for the Empress, and our party perceived 


192 


PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 


with much interest they were about to meet royalty and its cortege. 
An open carriage which had stopped whilst the only lady occupant, 
the Empress, was speaking to a gentleman on the side-walk, stood 
before them. On the back seat were the Emperor and Empress — on 
the front sat two gentlemen — a guard of soldiers, motionless on 
horseback, brought up the rear. 

Giving directions to the coachman to drive slowly by the royal 
carriage, every member of our party fixed their eyes on its two prin- 
cipal occupants. Alice glanced first at the Emperor and mentally 
pronounced him a dignified, fine-looking man; and then concentrated 
her attention on the Empress, who was apparently talking pleasantly, 
gesticulating with the usual vivacity of a Frenchwoman. The Em- 
press was plainly dressed — far more so than the notorious woman 
whom they had just seen. Her face struck Alice as being pretty 
rather than otherwise, but if ever beautiful that time had passed. 
Stories of her good deeds and charitable works came into Alice’s 
mind as she looked upon her, when suddenly the Empress, attracted 
no doubt by the sweet, earnest face that looked into her own, gave a 
quick, graceful bow. Alice was surprised, but recovered herself in 
time to return the bow, the Emperor bowing also, and the carriage 
passed on. 

“Let us go and pass the afternoon at Pere La Chaise,” said Mrs. 
Bradford, the next day. 

“Yes,” said Alice, “far better there than in the Bois.” 

“An Old Virginia day!” exclaimed Colonel Bradford, drawing a 
long breath of the clear, delightful atmosphere as they drove in the 
direction of Pere La Chaise. Passing the Bastille with some shud- 
dering reminiscences, their approach to the City of the Dead was in- 
dicated by the wreaths of immortelles exposed for sale in the shop- 
windows. Approaching the great gate and pausing a moment to 
read the Bible inscriptions, comparing “I know that my Redeemer 
liveth” with the “Death is an eternal sleep” of the Revolution, they 
entered the principal cemetery of Paris. Turning to the right, they 
foisind themselves in the Jewish part of the cemetery. Not, a sign to 
show of life and immortality beyond the grave was there. They 
paused at the tomb of Rachel; a card with the corner turned down 
lay within! All within the Jewish cemetery spoke of desolation — 
darkness — without a ray of light or hope. 

“The Jews practically disavow all belief in the resurrection of the 
dead,” said Colonel Bradford, looking around; “to them ‘Death is an 


PARIS UNDER THE SECOND EMPIRE. 193 

Eternal Sleep!” The silence and hopelessness were oppressive, and 
they soon turned away to other parts of the cemetery. 

It was a relief to turn even to the ‘‘strange millinery of frippery 
and grief” embodied in the exquisite embroidery of statued cuffs and 
clasped hands; for there was at least affection — faith — something of 
life and love among the dead. 

One of the most interesting tombs was of course that of Eloise 
and Abelard, — the tale of human passion which, Lamartine says, has 
for seven centuries most profoundly touched the human heart. 

“Read the inscription, Alice,” said Mrs. Bradford; “your French 
accent is purer than mine. 

Alice read : Hestea D' Ileloise et D' Abelard — Said Reunis Dans 

Ac Tombeau.'' 

There was a tremor in the low, sweet voice, and a drooping of the 
long lashes over the pale cheek that a little surprised Mrs. Bradford. 

‘‘Alice is so romantic,” she thought, “it is wonderful that she never 
had a story.” 

They stopped in their progress to admire another inscription : “A. 
Larrey — L' Homme Le Idas Verteux i^ue Jui Connu — Testament de 
Napoleon.” And another, touching in its brevity and the story is 
told, yet still pre-eminently French: “ Sans Adieu." 

“1 wonder,” said Mrs. Bradford, “to see so few inscriptions from 
the Bible.” 

“But you should not wonder,” said her husband; “ what do Ro- 
man Catholics know of the Bible? it is no part of their daily life; 
their joys and their sorrows do not come into it; it is not their spir- 
itual biography, an Newman says of the readers of our English Bible. 
But yonder is a funeral procession — let us go and see the burial.” 

“You go,” said Alice, “and return for me. 1 had rather stay here 
and look at Paris.” 

Alice was standing at the top of a long flight of steps, arrested in 
her descent by a view of the beautiful city, overhung by a golden 
haze below. The contrast between the storied monuments around in 
the City of the Dead, and the moving tide that rolled and surged on- 
ward in the City of the Living, suddenly fell upon her. As she stood 
silently gazing at Paris a shadow fell athwart the turf. Turning, 
she encountered eyes such as belonged to no other mortal she had 
seen — Robert Graham. 


194 


graham’s story. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


graham’s story. 

Mr. Graham approached Alice with an air of quick determination. 

“Have you seen Brother?” she asked, as soon as the first greet- 
ings were over. 

“Yes,” he replied, “I met him at the chapel and he told me where 
to find you. I told him to go on, that I would bring you presently. 
Do not fear,” he added gently, observing the shade that fell on Alice’s 
face; “I wish to have some conversation with you. If you were an 
ordinary woman I would not ask it. It will relieve me of a burden 
and help me through my whole future life to speak freely to you once. 
Rose knows already much that I shall say, and she will know the 
whole hereafter. Sometimes on earth the soul must speak — and is 
not this a fit place to speak the soul’s solemn words — in the presence 
of these ? ” pointing to the columns and graves around, “ and of those on 
their way here?” pointing to the beautiful city gleaming in the rays 
of the sun. 

It was one of those moments in which we are compelled to act 
without consideration, and the action is the fruit of our daily life. 
Alice felt instinctively that it was better to let him speak. 

“Say on, my friend,” she said, holding out her hand to him; “you 
know if there is aught in which I can serve you or Rose how gladly 
I will do it.” 

“Spoken like yourself,” said Graham, taking her hand and pressing 
it reverently; “true, noble, beautiful, above all other women as you 
are, you bring back to man his lost divinity of soul.” Alice remained 
quiet. 

“ Sit here,” said Graham, “ on this step, and with Paris at our feet 
and these graves for witnesses, listen to my story. Afar back in my 
boyhood ‘ I loved the woman.’ When about fifteen years of age I 
remember walking three miles that I might get the sight of a woman, 
past twenty, ugly, but with whom I had been thrown for a week or 
two. Your brother has probably told you what I was when we were 
at College. It was whilst I was a law-student that I met with Laura 
Averett. I then — although inclined to be dissipated — had all youth’s 
hopes and dreams of distinction and love. Laura was beautiful as a 
fairy, and apparently innocent and guileless as a child. I resolved to 
give up drink and gaming — for which I had a strong passion — and 


graham’s story. 


195 


in the bosom of domestic happiness and in a useful and honorable 
career, seek what seemed to me ‘ the true pathos and sublime of hu- 
man life.’ I was in earnest — filled with these hopes and dreams — 
and thinking Laura’s soul as beautiful as her body. ’Tis an old tale 
and often told — of woman’s faithlessness and man’s ruin. We were 
separated for a brief period — parted with the kiss of betrothal on our 
lips — and, in a word, she jilted me — for a man, low, inferior — one 
whom I held in contempt. My hopes in life and fhith in woman 
blighted, there was nothing left, and I plunged into maddening dis- 
sipation. Henceforth I deemed all women alike. 

“I will pass over the years that followed — years of some intellec- 
tual progress and of great moral declension — wretched years — the 
immortal subject to the mortal — the slave of sin — which Grod’s in- 
finite mercy and Christ’s blood only can wipe out. Some nobler feel- 
ings were roused in my dead soul at the breaking out of the war. I 
loved the Confederate cause, and was accounted a brave soldier and 
kind officer, — for men, I had fellow-feeling — for women, I had none. 
The end of the war came, and the death-blow of my hopes for the 
South. Accustomed to a better life during the war, I did not readily 
return to the one I had left. Friends — noble men — gathered around 
me and endeavored to elevate me still. It was at this time ihat I 
met Rose. Her beauty and simplicity of manner attracted every one. 
With young men bowing around her she evidently preferred me. 
Her spirit seemed to prostrate itself before what she conceived my 
intellect to be, and her faith in what she simply imagined my good- 
ness was without bounds. My friends, without an exception, ad- 
vised marriage as the best thing for me. I had seen enough of 
life, and knew well enough the safeguards of domestic life to believe 
that Rose would be true to me after marriage — my faith in woman 
went no farther. Her brother insisted on the delay to our marriage. 
I could give no reason against it, though I doubted her faithfulness 
if it was delayed. That may have been some excuse for me in regard 
to you. I met you — and knew from that first evening that I had 
known no woman like you. The dreams of the golden prime of 
youth rose before me again, and I felt that with you they might yet 
be realized. My spirit rose in rebellion against my betrothal. I knew 
that mine was a nature that specially needed the help of a pure and 
elevated woman — if I could find such a one — for its development and 
perfection. I questioned the goodness of God to throw such a wo- 
man in my way and forbid my seeking to win her. I realized not 


196 


geaham's story. 


then that the great struggle between man and life must be made (done^ 
with God only to aid. I tried to quiet my misgivings in regard to 
Rose by saying that she would not stand the probation of our en- 
gagement — that she was probably even then flirting with some other 
man — or men. As your mind opened to me and I wonderingly found 
its exquisite harmony and sympathy with my own; as I rose in the 
region of light and purity that enveloped you to yearnings never 
felt — or only dimly felt and smothered — before; as I saw in you the 
type of all that is loveliest in woman, I put aside the low voice of 
conscience and determined that you should be mine. I had never 
failed to loin a woman where I had tried to do so, though I had failed 
to keep her, owing, I thought, to her own intrinsic weakness. Alice, 
a hundred women would not have resisted all that was brought to 
bear against you. How did you resist it? ” 

Alice felt as if they stood soul to soul facing each other. Only the 
simple truth rose involuntarily to her lips: — 

“ The fear that it was wrong.” 

“I thought so,” said Graham, triumphantly, his magnificent eyes 
lighting as Alice had never seen them light before, “God be thanked 
that he has given me to see that principle can have the victory in a 
woman’s soul. And I see now — what I was blind to then — that if 
you had yielded you would have been no longer the woman 3^011 were, 
and your influence over me would have been lost. You know not 
how intensely I watched your character, wondering if the Spirit of 
God had anything to do with it. As time passed on and I saw that 
you would not yield, my love for you assumed another and a higher 
type. I saw that you were willing to give me your friendship and 
sympathy, and I was content with that. I felt that to be near you — 
to see you daily — to share your thoughts and feelings, was sufiicient; 
that I could do this for a life-time and be content.” 

“And if you could, I could not,” flashed across Alice’s soul, but left 
no trace on the marble of her face. 

“Then Rose returned — true, to my surprise. Your appreciation 
of her first roused me to her real excellence and capabilities, and then 
I saw the greatest wonder of all — your efforts to aid her in becoming 
my companion and helper. Alice, my life will not be what it would 
have been with you, but Oh! you have made all things new for me.” 

“ It will be better,” said Alice, “ than with me, for you will look 
more to God a«id will be more independent and self-helpful.” 

^ “It is the will of God,” said Graham, reverently. “Now I think 


gkaham’s story. 


197 


only of trying in some brief measure to redeem the past, and pre- 
pare for the great future hereafter. It was not until after you left 
Leamington that your character and influence and example did its 
full work. Then I saw if you had failed how terrible would have 
been the failure to me. I determined to give myself to God in Christ, 
and in so doing I found peace. I contemplate my measureless and 
unfathomable sins with disgust and hatred. The earthly and sensual, 
1 trust, have been transmuted — elevated — into the heavenly and spir- 
itual. It is no earthly bond that unites us now; I feel that we are 
one forever in Christ.” 

“And now,” continued Graham after a short pause, “I am strength- 
ened for all time to come. In the words of Caroline Meyer on meet- 
ing with Jean Paul, ‘I feel a strength and power to bear life such as 
I never felt before. I could be happy without ever seeing you again 
in this life.’ ” 

“And your friend — your and Rose’s friend always,” said Alice. 

“ Friend,” repeated Graham, extending his hand to her, “ I know 
what that word is to you; Time and Eternity are in it. Rose may 
go in her young beauty to the grave, and I may love and wed an- 
other; but your friendship will remain — unshaken by doubt — un- 
clouded by passion — above all chance and change — a possession for- 
ever.” 

The last rays of the setting sun shed their parting glory over 
Paris — a vision of the heavenly city flashed across Alice’s mind. 

“Look!” said she, her face lighting; “if earth is so fair, what must 
Heaven be?” 

Graham’s eyes followed her hand and to each it seemed as if life 
were only a span long, and the glory to be revealed lay just before 
them. 

“ It is time to go,” said Alice, and quietly they walked to the gate 
and so quietly drove back to the city that the coachman wondered if 
Monsieur and Mademoiselle had quarrelled, or taken a vow not to 
speak. At the door of the Hotel they were met by Rose, radiant 
with love and joy. 

“Surely no other man could so utterly root out jealousy from a 
woman’s heart,” thought Alice, as Rose threw herself into her arms. 
And that night, pillowed on her breast. Rose poured forth the full 
tide of her hopes and joys, — murmurs of love and happiness mingled 
with talk of trousseau and furniture, till exhausted she fell asleep. 
Alice arose — sleep was far from her eyes — and laying the bright, 


198 


LOVE DIES WITH HOPE. 


young head gently on a pillow, opened a window and looked out — 
not at the city, but the sky. 


CHAPTER XV. 

LOVE DIES WITH HOPE. 

The Bradfords remained in Paris till after the marriage of Graham 
and Rose. 

“One more scene, and this part of life is over,” thought Alice, as 
she gave the finishing touch to Rose’s bridal toilet, and as she stood 
beside them at the altar and saw the look of proud joy that lit up 
Graham’s noble face, and the perfect content and happiness that 
rested on Rose’s, she felt that now at least they had no farther need 
of her. Mr. and Mrs. Robert Graham set out immediately for Swit- 
zerland, and the Bradfords returned to England. Stopping for a few 
days in London, they saw the various places of interest left unvisited 
on their former stay. All were in haste to get back to Leamington. 
The Colonel was tired out with sight-seeing and anxious to return 
home during the summer; Mrs. Bradford had exhausted her love of 
shopping in Paris, and Alice felt that she would not give one talk 
with Helen for all the shows in London. 

On reaching Leamington lettei’S were found awaiting them from 
America; among them one from Albert Vaughan to Alice, as follows: 

Theo. Seminary, May 20, 1866. 

My dear Alice : 

It has been some time since I wrote you, but there has been 
sufficient cause for my not doing so. I mentioned to your brother in 
my last that I had not been well. From the first I thought that my 
sensations indicated something serious. I have gradually been grow- 
ing worse, and on examination by a physician I find that I am threat- 
ened with organic disease of the heart. There is danger of an attack 
at any time which will probably result in death. It is a great trial 
to give up my long-cherished wish to serve God in the ministry, but 
the doctor prescribes total rest, and gives me little hope that I shall 
ever be able to preach. God’s will be done. I contemplate death by 
day and by night as not far distant, and strive to be ready for the 
Master’s call, whether it shall come at even, or at midnight, at the 


LOVE DIES WITH HOPE. 


199 


cock-crowing, or in the morning. I trust, under God, to see you all 
again. I can write no more now, as it fatigues me to write. Love 
to all; and praying God’s blessing on you, faithfully and affection- 
ately, Your friend and guardian, 

Albekt Vaughan. 

The calmness with which this letter was written served a good pur- 
pose in giving Alice calmness as she read it. Nothing in her man- 
ner indicated that she felt the announcement more than her brother 
and sister, unless her greater quietness in receiving it. But a few 
hours later, as she laid her head on Helen’s knee in a secluded nook 
ot* Jephson gardens, all reserve and forced calmness gave way, and it 
was with a great sob and burst of tears that she placed the letter in 
Helen’s hand. 

“What a letter!” said Helen, casting her eye over it and indig- 
nantly throwing it down, “he has no more feeling for you than a 
brute.” 

“ 0, do not say so,” said Alice, “ you do not know him. It is only 
his way, and with death before him, he could not think of anything 
else.” 

“But he ought to have thought of something else,” said Helen; 
“you would not have forgotten him, and if he is a Christian he knows 
that he who goes is better off than those who stay. I have no pa- 
tience with him.” 

“ If life has taught me anything, darling,” said Alice, looking up 
with a sad smile, “it is ‘let patience have her perfect work.’ And 
Helen, God has been preparing me for this. Never till lately have I felt 
that I could give him up. And now hope is dead. But I will be true 
and faithful to him to the end.” 

“I do not see that he needs you,” said Helen; there are some peo- 
ple so wrapped up in self they don’t need any one else. It is said that 
love cannot live without hope, and may it be so, for he would keep 
you waiting to the end with perfect self-complacency.” 

“You do him injustice, Helen,” said Alice, raising her head quickly; 
“you forget my own unhappy state of mind and variableness, so try- 
ing to one like him, — besides he has left me free. I am bound by no 
engagement to him.” 

“Free, indeed!” said Helen, scornfully; “as if he didn’t know you 
well enough to know that if you had permitted a pressure of your 
hand, or drooped your eyelids before his, you would have considered 
yourself 'as much bound to him as if the most solemn betrothal had 


200 


LOVE DIES WITH HOPE. 


taken place. You have ail the trials and none of the helps of an cn- 
gagemenb, darling. And 3^ou conscientiously repulse the slightest 
beginning of an attachment from any other man. You will never 
marry, Alice, because you are not the least bit of a flirt.” 

“Of the two 1 had rather never marry than to flirt,” said Alice, 
half-smiling, “for in the one case I could retain my own self-respect, 
and in the other 1 could not.” 

“Men are such creatures you are obliged to meet them as they de- 
serve,” said Helen. “It chafes me so to think how much they have 
the advantage of us in all these affairs of the heart. If things don’t 
go to suit them they can talk, write, protest. We, feeling so much 
more than they do, can only 'suffer and be still.’” 

“It helps me to bear it,” said Alice, *‘to think that it is only a part 
of our penalty for the fall. It is not only that ‘thy desire shall be to 
thy husband and he shall rule over thee,’ but in all relations between 
man and woman, he must rule and she submit.” 

“1 have wondered sometimes,” said Helen, “how much of the Last 
Great Day’s trial will be taken up with the conduct of men towards 
women. Stabbing her, as he often does, with smiling face and win- 
ning word, through the heart. Did you ever think, Alice, how many 
more women will probably be in heaven than men?” 

“ Yes, I have thought of it,” said Alice, “yet 0, 1 would help every 
man there that 1 could. But 1 do not think there will be sex here- 
after. This outer ‘ muddy vesture of decay,’ will fall away at the res- 
urrection and we shall be as the angels of God.” 

“And yet the angels are spoken of as having sex,” said Helen; 
“there are Gabriel and Michael. Indeed, Alice, angels are only 
spoken of in the masculine gender in the Bible.” 

“ That may only be to express the stronger and nobler powers,” 
said Alice, “ as God Himself, who is without ‘ body, parts, or passions,’ 
is represented to us in the masculine.” 

“And Christ came as man,” said Helen, “although containing in 
Himself all of man’s and all of woman’s nature. But it is time to 
go. Let us be thankful for the present, my precious one, and leave 
the future to Him whose care is as unfailing as His love.” 


ON THE JAVA. 


201 


BOOK IV. . 

HOME AGAIN. 


CHAPTER 1. 

ON THE JAVA. 

Near the latter part of July our party bade adieu to Leamington. 
Alice’s last look was at Helen, as she stood near the station leaning 
on her umbrella, in a dark walking-dress and red bird bn her hat, her 
large, loving eyes fixed on her friend. Mrs. Bradford and Charlie 
were enjoying some fine oranges. Maggie Roy (who wished to ac- 
company them to America) was wiping away a few tears on parting 
from a cousin who had come to the station to* bid her good-bye; 
while Colonel Bradford was dreamily looking farewell to Leamington 
amidst the soft endearments of a fine cigar. 

The light and beauty surrounding Leamington were soon left be- 
hind, and passing through the “Black Country” they reached Liver- 
pool that night. On the next day they enbarked on the Cunard 
steamer, /ava, and bade adieu to Old England. On Sunday they 
touched Queenstown, taking on board Queen Emma, of the Sand- 
wich Islands, and catching a glimpse of Lady Franklin, who accom- 
panied the Queen to the ship. • 

On Sunday night, as Alice sat musing a little apart on deck, her 
brother approached her with a gentleman, tall, fine-looking, and of 
dignified bearing, whom at first glance she saw had an empty sleeve. 

“Doctor Euston,” said her brother, “an Army friend whom I had 
the pleasure of meeting unexpectedly on board.” 

Alice shook hands with him — his right hand was the one left — and 
Colonel Bradford in a few moments rejoined his wife. Doctor Eus- 
ton took a seat beside Alice and they soon glided into conversation. 

The face to which Alice lifted her eyes as he spoke in low, clear 
tones, seemed to her at first glance under more perfect control than 
any face she had ever seen. The features were regular, the mouth 
nearly concealed by a heavy, dark moustache, the eyes of a deep, in- 
tense blue, and the hand, which rested on the arm of his chair, of 
long, tapering fingers, and rare, yet masculine beauty. 

“Were you at Service this morning?” said Doctor Euston, his eye 
resting on Alice’s face; “I did not see you there.” 


202 


OK THE JAVA. 


“No,” said Alice, “the Old Man of the Sea is so inimical to me 
that i am obliged to elude his > grasp on all occasions, and can stay 
nowhere but on deck. 1 was very sorry to miss it, for the Service at 
sea is so beautiful.” 

“ Yes, the services of the Episcopal Church are in good taste,” said 
Doctor Euston. 

“But we love it for something better than that,” said Alice; “for 
its sublime worship, for its knowledge of the human heart, and for 
its revelation of the character of God.” 

“I do not think that 1 have noticed it in some of those particu- 
lars,” said Doctor Euston. “I have only been a looker-on in its ser- 
vices. 1 was brought up a Calvinist, and having never regarded 
myself as one of the elects I feel little interest in the subject.” 

A slight shock was visible on Alice’s speaking face. “ I am sure that 
the best Calvinists would tell you that you are wrong,” said she; “that 
it is your duty to accept the Gospel and do what is right. But I am 
glad to tell you,” she continued, “that 1 am not a bit of a Calvinist. 
The elect according to the foreknowledge of God are those who accept 
the Gospel, and God cannot but see the end from the beginning.” 

“Go on,” said he, smiling — a sweet smile — not with the charm of 
Graham’s, but tender and grave; “that view of the question is com- 
paratively new to me,— I would like to hear more of it.” 

“ It seems to me sufficient,” said Alice, blushing, “that there should 
be so much more in the Bible that is dear and plain, proclaiming a 
free salvation for all men, than there is on the other side. Whatever 
some expressions may be construed to mean, there are none that can 
stand against ‘ God commandeth all men everywhere to repent;’ 
‘Not willing that any should perish but that all should come to re- 
pentance,’ and others of a similar nature.” 

“Yes,” said Doctor Euston, thoughtfully, “to make them as strmig 
on tlie other side they should be, God commandeth some men at some 
places to repent, and. Not willing that all should perish but that some 
should come to repentance.” 

“And ‘If one died for all then were all dead,’” said Alice, “the op- 
posite of which would be. If one died for some, then were some dead; 
yet who but infidels and some modern philosophers deny that all are 
dead in trespasses and sins ? ” 

“You take a low view of human nature,” said Doctor Euston, fix- 
ing his eyes on Alice’s face; “and yet I would not suppose that you 
are very hard on your fellow-mortals.” 


ON THE JAVA. 


2U8 


“ Those who know themselves best are less hard on others,” said 
Alice, lifting her eyes to his, “they know the possibilities of human 
nature to descend or to rise; to go away into everlasting darkness and 
despair, or to rise to light and joy.” There was a moment’s silence. 

“You put the question seriously,” said he, “and I believe what you 
sa3^ But beyond the fear of hell I feel no interest on the subject. 
What would you do in a case like this?” 

“Do?” said Alice, emotion kindling in her eyes and vibrating in 
her voice, “give yourself to God through Christ; pray for His Holy 
Spirit to enlighten you — to renew in you the Divine image lost 
through sin.” 

There was again a pause, and Alice, somewhat startled by her ve- 
hemence in speaking to a stranger, rose to leave. Doctor Euston 
drew a paper of cigars from his pocket after she left, and throwing 
himself back in his chair sat in a musing attitude, looking out on the 
vsea. As he rose and threw the stump of the cigar over into the water, 
a few inaudible words hovered on his lips. Those words were: 

“That woman shall be m}^ wife!” 

Night after night Doctor Euston took his seat beside Alice on deck 
and under the soft light of the moon with the good ship ploughing 
steadily and swiftly through the ocean, their acquaintance — facilita- 
ted by the easy intercourse permitted to companions en voyage — rap- 
idly progressed. 

Their conversation embraced a wide range of subjects, literary, re- 
ligious, social, on all of which Doctor Euston was well-informed. It 
was not until the fourth night of these conversations that there 
flashed across Alice’s mind that anything could be meant by them 
save an agreeable way of beguiling the monotony of a sea-voyage. 
A few words, apparently careless ones, were uttered; but there was a 
gleam in the eye, a slight directness of meaning which flashed a new 
light to her instincts, and caused her in a few moments to leave the 
deck. Her first thought was utter rejection of such a feeling. There 
had been no awakening of emotion, no peculiar sympathy in these 
conversations as in the case with Graham. They were simply intel- 
lectual, and her desires for his good were merely those she entertained 
for all the world. Besides, there was a fixed purpose in her mind to 
be true to Albert Vaughan to the end. 

As Alice sat on deck the next evening Doctor Euston approached 
her, so calmly that she felt that she must have been mistaken the 
evening before. The conversation proceeded as usual, only assuming 


204 


ON THE JAVA. 


a more confidential tone as it went on; and to this Alice did not ob- 
ject, for she wished to be his friend. But suddenly, as she rose to 
leave the deck, he turned to her and said: 

“You leave me to dreams, Miss Alice, such as I have not known 
since I lost this,” touching his empty sleeve. 

The look and tone were unmistakable, and to Alice’s astonishment 
her own heart rose in reply. Reaching her room, she threw herself 
on the. sofa in a state of extreme trepidation. This sudden awaken- 
ing of feeling — what did it mean? Was the emotional so much 
stronger in her nature than the principle of duty? No — it was not 
love; it was sympathy only. She would cast it off — she would resist 
it. But it was not so easy to resist. She could not rest, and all the 
sleeping passion which Albert Vaughan’s coldness had permitted to 
slumber for years, and in Graham’s case had been repressed at the 
call of duty, awoke like a giant within her soul. She yearned as 
never before since the days of her early youth to love and be loved, — 
and that look and tone rose before her as its fulfilment, and a solitary 
figure dreaming on deck of — what? 

Alice did not understand her own condition. Sir Walter Scott 
truly says that love may exist on wonderfully little hope, but dies 
without any. Alice’s passion, feeble and flickering for Albert V aughan 
already, and kept alive only by the voice of duty, died, with hope, on 
the reception of his last loveless letter. The unoccupied soul was, 
without her own knowledge, ready for love to enter in and possess. 

When Alice again met Doctor Euston his manner was frank and 
genial, and wearied by the conflict of the preceding night, she re- 
joiced to rest in his soothing companionship. 

“It would be delightful to have him for a friend,” she thought; 
“what congeniality and sympathy there would be in his fine mind, 
and I could help him as only a woman could.” 

The next day dawned on the last of the voyage, and in the even- 
ing Doctor Euston, as usual, approached and took his seat beside 
Alice. This evening all the powers of his fine mind were exerted to 
the utmost for her entertainment. The ship sprang lightly over the 
smooth waters, and Alice, reclining in a large arm-chair, thoroughly 
enjoyed the present, leaving the future to God. 

“You are looking a little tired,” said he, observing her closely as 
she arose to leave; “there is some lemonade in the cabin — I will get 
you a glass.” 

Returning with it, he stood talking whilst she drank it. In giving 


205 


“old VIRGINIA.” 

liiin the glass their hands met; a quick, sudden pressure of her hand 
sent a tlirill like an electric flash to Alice’s heart. For a moment she 
shrank trembling, and “Let me accompany you down the steps,” 
were his next words, in clear, calm tones. 

“It may have been accidental,” thought Alice, as she reached her 
state-room, '“but I do not believe it was, — that strange, new joy that 
thrilled to my heart! I ought not to have felt it; but Oh! I did not 
know — I could not help it. But I will not yield to it now, by God’s 
help. If Albert Vaughan loves me, why don’t he tell me so? It 
seems to me nothing could be worse than throwing me out in the 
wide world thus with all these yearning affections strong within my 
heart. I can’t bear to be in this position towards two men — feeling 
myself bound to one and in danger of loving another. By God’s 
help I will keep my heart from him till I see Albert Vaughan.” 

Early the next morning they reached New York. Alice awoke 
feeling unusually fresh and bright, and dressing hastily, hurried on 
deck to see the sun rise. The stately ship was just riding through a 
smooth sea into harbor. Before them lay the great city, its hundred 
spires lit by the morning sun. On the left rose Staten Island, as if 
just emerging from the sea. From the ship to the sun all along the 
ocean lay a path of dazzling light. 

“ The path of glory,” thought Alice. “ 0, life is very difficult, but 
'The path of duty is the path of glory.’” A flgure darkened the 
way, and turning, she met Doctor Euston’s deep, searching eyes. 

‘‘She is keeping her heart from me,” he thought. 

Just then the cannon burst forth in greeting to Queen Emma. 
The next moment a boat reached the ship, and welcomes and con- 
gratulations announced that they were again in the New World. 


CHAPTER 11. 


“old VIRGINIA.” 

The arrival of our party in New York did not create quite as much 
sensation as that of Queen Emma; they were not greeted by the 
boom of cannon, nor was the freedom of the city tendered to them. 
An amusing instance of republican manners presented itself imme- 


20C 


“old VIRGimA.” 

diately on landing. A porter, evidently in high dudgeon, following 
a gentleman who had just landed, and who was pursuing his way 
without giving him any attention. 

“You are expected to give a civil answer in this country,” the por- 
ter said, as our party passed. 

“Imagine such a thing on the other side of the water,” said Colo- 
nel Bradford, laughing, “especially among those automaton English 
servants.” 

Our party left New York late in the afternoon on a sleeping-car, 

1 and sped for a while before dark through the cultivated farms of the 
Middle States. Then all slept, and awoke in Washington just in 
time to arrange their toilet before changing cars. 

At four o’clock in the afternoon they reached home. Doctor 
Pringle, Mr. Henderson, Mr. Carter, and other friends met them at 
the station and accompanied them to Colonel Bradford’s house, where 
an unexpected pleasure aw'aited them. Mrs. Parker’s calm, benevo- 
lent face — calmer and lovelier than ever — greeted them at the door, 
and on entering they found a number of friends assembled to welcome 
them. Everything was in exquisite order; the loveliest flowers shed 
their fragrance around; the beds looked like heaps of snow, and a 
real Virginia supper — hot rolls, biscuit, and broiled chicken — was 
spread in the dining-room. Kindly greetings and warm claspings of 
the hand were exchanged, and then the friends dispersed, leaving the 
family to rest and refreshment. 

Alice sought her own room early, and looking again at sky and 
river, mountain and hill, blessed Him who had led her thus far safely 
through life’s journey. 

“If we haven’t a country we have a home,” said Colonel Bradford 
to his wife as they retired to their room. 

“And it shall be my ambition to make you forget the one in the 
other,” said she, softly. 

“And this boy,” said the Colonel, looking at the sleeping Charlie, 
“will never feel that the country of which he was born a citizen dis- 
appeared in the ' vortex of revolutions.’ ” 

The next day a number of Colonel Bradford’s former slaves ap- 
peared to welcome them, and to receive help. From among them 
cook, housemaid and butler were engaged. 

Albert and Louis were expected at an early day, and Alice, in the 
midst of her busy preparations, arranging book, vase, and picture, 
sent forth many a thought to their coming. But as the time drew 


“old VIRGINIA.” 207 

near she grew so nervous in anticipation of it that she determined 
she would think no more about it. 

“Only I will be frank and open,” thought she, “however weak I 
may be I can at least be that.” 

Louis’s letters had lately assumed a calmer, manlier tone; he seemed 
to be learning to submit to the inevitable, and strength was growing 
out of disappointment. ' Albert Vaughan had always been so entirely 
self-governing, and now his thoughts seemed to be so much beyond 
this life, that Alice felt the hope that with him, as with her, all hu- 
man passion had passed away. Nothing had been heard from Doctor 
E list on since their parting in New York; but not the less did Alice 
feel that an influence had come into her life not soon to pass from it. 

Albert and Louis were to reach the same day, and it was 

with a palpitating heart that Alice arrayed herself in one of the love- 
liest of white muslins for their coming. “A woman likes to look her 
best even before a rejected lover,” says George Eliot; with Alice it 
was an instinct that she did not like to lessen the ideal in their con- 
ception of her. 

Louis appeared first, walking. “Lovelier than ever,” he thought, 
as he held Alice at arm’s length and surveyed her from head to foot, 
‘•but not for me.” Soon after, Albert Vaughan appeared in a hack, 
looking somewhat paler and thinner than usual, but very much him- 
self. A look of earnest inquiry came into his face as he met Alice, 
whilst hers said as plainly as if the words fell from her lips, “I 
was — (vru tempted; bring me back to you if you wish it — if it is not 
too late.” Albert dropped her hand and turned away, and during 
the evening scarcely noticed her any more than courtesy and the cir- 
cumstances of their external position required. 

“Free! Free!” was the joyous refrain of Alice’s thoughts as she 
reached her room that night. “ 0, I am glad he don’t love me, or if 
he does, he don’t act like it. Any way, I want to be free from this — 
this entanglement — this, whatever it is that has brooded over my life 
so long. But what assurance have I that any love or friendship 
vvill last if I change ? 0, I couldn’t bear to give Albert up for eter- 

nity; the spiritual and immortal part of love does not die, only that 
which is earthly and for time.” 

During the week of Albert Vaughan’s visit there was no variation 
in his manner, and each night Alice felt thankful that it was so. 
She was more reserved towards him than she would have been, for 
fear that he might misunderstand her. All the old time friendship. 


208 


“old VIRGINIA/’ 


associated with Lily and Charlie and her father, returned in full force 
on the death of love, and she yearned to be to him as she had been 
of yore. 

‘‘That may be for the future,” she thought, as with unaltered mien 
he bade her farewell. “I would so like to tell him all if he would 
only say something and give me the opportunity.” 

One thing greatly comforted Alice — Alberf Vaughan’s health was 
better; she could not have borne for her heart to have departed from 
him with death just before him. 

Louis was evidently still her warm and true friend, but the old, 
worshipping devotion was gone. His mind had in the last year out- 
grown the heart, and business and politics had taken the place of 
love. His aims were higher, and he was growing more the practical 
Christian man. 

“You have done me great good. Miss Alice,” said Louis, half-sadly 
on parting. “ Before you marry let me come and take a look at the 
man.” 

“We outgrow so much even in this life,” mused Alice in the si- 
lence of her room after Louis left, “how we must change hereafter.” 

And then her thoughts reverted to Doctor Euston, and the barrier 
removed that withheld her affections from him, like a strong current 
they rushed onward and she felt that she loved him. She knew not 
where he was, or that she would ever hear from him again; but out 
in the infinite her spirit sought his with yearning tenderness to bless 
and to help, — beyond all and first of all — only all — it seemed to her 
then to help him on to God and heaven. 

There was a tap at the door; the butler entered saying there was a 
gentleman in the parlor. “He did not send up his name,” he said, 
“ but asked for Miss Bradford.” 

“If Miss Alice hadn’t looked like she did,” soliloquized Warwick, 
as he walked down the steps, “ I’d a told her he hadn’t but one arm, 
but dear me, she looked like she seen the angels.” 

Alice rose half mechanically and walked down the steps endeavor- 
ing to collect her thoughts and bring them down to things of every- 
day life. The light of a pure, spiritual love still lingered in her face 
as she stood in the door. 

“Lovely as an angel, and mine thought her visitor, as he rose 

to greet her. A flash lit up his own face as he bent his eyes on hers, 
and Alice felt that once more a new song of life had commenced for 
her. “Will it end as the other?” darted into her thoughts. 


HEI^KY EUSTON. 


209 


CHAPTER III. 

HENRY EUSTON. 

Doctor Easton had been in the practice of medicine on the eastern 
shore of North Carolina for about a year previous to the breaking 
out of the war. His reputation as a physician, even in this short 
space of time, had become so considerable that at the commencement 

of the war he received an appointment as surgeon to the N. C. 

regiment. In this capacity he served faithfully throughout the war, 
adding numerous laurels to his medical reputation. At the last battle 
of the war, near Appomattox Court House — around which Alice’s 
heart and prayers had hung in such intensity — finding the men de- 
serting by scores. Doctor Euston fought as a private soldier and lost 
an arm. After the close of the war, his health being impaired, he 
did not resume the practice of medicine; and being advised to take 
a sea-voyage, and also desired by his father — formerly a wealthy 
planter — to look after his cotton interests in England, he went over 
to Europe, and after transacting his business crossed the channel and 
remained for some weeks on the Continent, returning to England in 
time to emhark on the Java. 

Doctor Euston’s first glance at Alice’s speaking face, lit with the 
glow of a lofty, devoted passion, told him that the barrier which 
withheld her affections from him had been removed. He had so 
truly read Alice’s character as to see that religion — a desire to save 
and bless him — was a part of the feeling which had been so deeply 
roused. He knew that if he were a Christian man — one of the ninety- 
and-nine that went not astray — rich and prosperous, and with both 
arms, Alice’s heart never would thus have yielded to him. 

“Beautiful saint! it is for the one sinner that needs repentance 
that her soul yearns,” he thought, “ but her brother may be of a dif- 
ferent opinion. And she is gentle and timid, a very woman with all 
her daring enthusiasm. I must be wary or I will lose her.” 

A month from this time found Doctor Euston located as a physi- 
cian in , which offered a better prospect for him than his 

former place of residence. One thing, however, seemed to militate 
against the success of his plans in the outset — Colonel Bradford did 
not like him. There was little congeniality between them. Colonel 
Bradford’s enthusiasm curdled before Doctor Euston’s grave, cynic 
smile. 


210 


BACK TO COOLEEMEE. 


Mrs. Bradford, on the contrary, felt the power of his strong will 
and reserved nature. Alice said nothing. Her brother’s — to her — 
unwarrantable dislike of Doctor Euston only increased her interest 
in him. Poor, lonely, a stranger, maimed — these were powerful ap- 
peals to Alice’s heart, intensified by hopes and fears concerning his 
better and immortal part. But as Alice’s feelings grew in depth and 
fervor — for there is no stand-still in a nature like hers — Doctor Eus- 
ton’s manner suddenly became constrained and his visits rare till they 
ceased altogether. At this new and unexpected turn of events, 
Alice’s heart, thrown back on itself, suffered acutely. But in a na- 
ture in which religion has taken strong hold, there is always a vital 
force which prevents despair. From a night of extreme suffering, 
Alice arose with a fixed determination, by God’s help, that she would 
no longer yield to this strange, new passion. 

“There is one protection,” she thought, “for a woman in a case 
like this — that is, to cease to love; then he can have no power to hurt 
me.” 

Freedom of thought and independence of spirit came with her re- 
solve. “Now indeed am I /ree,” she thought, “/ree never before 
since I first loved Albert Vaughan.” Was it not, after all, the hap- 
piest, most glorious life — to be free — accountable only to God — the 
mind rising to the contemplation and enjoyment of Him — the heart 
resting in the perfect love of Christ, where there is no doubt nor 
fear — no variableness nor shadow of turning? 


CHAPTER IV. 

BACK TO COOLEEMEE. 

“ Ye saw the twilight of my dawn. 

When first my life began; 

And ye shall see that light withdrawn. 

My native hills of Dan ’’—Abratn Morehead. 

On one of those lovely mornings in early spring when one cannot 
but be happy, with tolerable health and a clear conscience, Alice — 
attended by Maggie Roy and Charlie — started for a walk in the 
country. “ One must go 

• Out into the free and the open ’ 


BACK TO COOLEEMEE. 


211 


such a morning as this,” she thought, and this morning, besides, 
there were weighty matters for consideration throbbing within her 
heart. The morning’s mail had brought her a letter from Mrs. Par- 
ker, who was in the country, speaking of the fact that the war had 
left her penniless, and as her only son was disabled, “I am with thou- 
sands of other Southern women reared in affluence thrown out on 
the wide world,” she wrote, “ and only wish to find some little way- 
side inn, where I may for the remainder of my days make my bread 
and do a little good.” 

Alice’s spirit rose fresh and elastic as she left the town behind her, 
and looked up to the towering Peaks of Otter and the illimitable ex- 
panse of sky beyond. The soft, sweet airs of a balmy spring day 
fanned her cheek; afar over the woods hovered blue, ethereal mists, 
giving the bare and leafless trees a beauty not their own; shadows 
chased each other over the hill-sides; a bird sprang from a dead tree 
near the path, flooding the air with melody; the wind murmured its 
soft strains through the woods. 

“All Nature is waking,” thought Alice, “there is a resurrection of 
the dead around me, and by God’s help, I too will rise. I will go 
back to Cooleemee — I will give dear Mrs. Parker a home there — and 
together we will make the desert rejoice and blossom like a rose.” 

Alice found less difficulty than she had anticipated in persuading 
her brother to consent to her return to Cooleemee and offer a home 
to Mrs. Parker. He understood her well enough to know that she 
would be happier with definite work which she could readily find in 
the neighborhood. It was a great consideration with Alice, and her 
brother and sister were not unmindful of it, to be able to give a home 
to such a woman as Mrs. Parker. Under the circumstances, urged 
as the only means by which Alice could fulfil her cherished hope of 
returning to Cooleemee, they did not doubt that she would accept 
it. 

“ If Alice was like other people she would stay with us or get mar- 
ried,” said Mrs. Bradford, “but as she isn’t, she might as well be al- 
lowed to go her own way.” 

A letter of earnest invitation to come and enable her to return to 
her beloved Cooleemee, “ to take care of it till Charlie is of age,” was 
dispatched by Alice to Mrs. Parker. And Mrs. Parker, who knew 
Alice’s character well, and loved her as an own daughter, responded 
favorably. 

“I will come and join you the first of June,” she wrote, “and we 


212 


BACK TO COOLEEMEE. 


can rest from all our wanderings beneath the branches of your ain 
fig-tree.” And another ally was found in Doctor Pringle. 

“ I will go with you, my child,” said he, “ with the light of your 
sweet face shining in the neighborhood I can take myself to my old 
bachelor’s nest again.” 

The tidings of Alice’s departure brought no response from Doctor 
Euston. Alice heard with a pang that he was not doing well. Inex- 
plicable as his conduct was towards her, she would have been happier 
to have left him in a more hopeful condition. But there was noth- 
ing to be done but to leave it all to God and to go about her new 
duties. With this last love as with the first, it was 

“ Hers not to make reply, 

Hers not to reason why, 

Hers but to do aud die.” 

The leafy month of June found Mrs. Parker and Alice at Coolee- 
mee. Sweet, fair, old Cooleemee! looking a little more grass-grown 
and older, but lovelier than ever. We will not stop to dwell on 
Mammy’s joy at their reception, and the complacency with which 
Arberius and Celia exhibited their three chubby children, all how- 
ever looking rather the worse for freedom, and glad to welcome some 
of their own white folks back to share the responsibilities of life 
with them. 

Mrs. Parker’s and Alice’s first care was to induce Mr. Moore to 
come and take up his abode with them at Cooleemee. It had been 
expected that Albert Yaughan would, after his ordination, take 
charge of this parish; and far different were the day-dreams which 
had once floated through Alice’s brain in reference to her return to 
Cooleemee. But Mr. Vaughan’s health was now too precarious to 
admit any thought of his taking a parish, and there was relief in the 
thought to Alice that he could not be there under the changed cir- 
cumstances. 

The tall old clock, weekly wound up by Mammy’s careful hands, 
ticked away in the corner; the moonlight slept as peacefully over 
garden and river and lawn ; the fresh, sparkling water of Cool Spring 
was as clear and limpid as before, — but that which should* outlast — 
as Alice once thought — time and moonlight and running stream, was 
dead — quiet as though it had never been — beyond the power of res- 
urrection. 

Long she mused in the silence of her own room her first night at 
Cooleemee. How strange it seemed to look back on her life — her 
dreamy girlhood — Lily — her visit to ; her roused religious na- 


THE GULF OF TIME. 


213 


ture — Albert Vaughan — the war — Charlie — her father — Europe — 
Graham — Helen’s friendship — and last, the strange power which had 
passed so suddenly over her life, and so suddenly passed away. What 
could it all mean? mystery, much of it — and yet, no doubt, an edu- 
c itiou, a preparation for something. 

“And now with such companions as Mrs. Parker and Mr. Moore,” 
said she to herself, “people who have outgrown human passion, and 
whose minds and hearts seem to be approximating the harmony of 
the angels, surely I too will grow to calmness and joy and strength. 
Oh ! is it wrong to wish that God’s love — Christ’s love — might give 
me the sensible joy that a mortal’s might give? Then might I not 
feel the power of devotion and sacrifice for his people and work that 
I am capable of feeling for a mortal ? Then might not the joy of the 
Lord be my strength ? ” 

And in the soothing companionship of ripe Christian friends, in 
their united efforts to elevate those around them, and in sweet con- 
verse with Nature — the friend that never betrays, but 

“ Through all the years of tnis our life, 

L ads on from joy to joy,” 

Alice found a satisfaction to which she had previously been a stranger. 
She felt, to her joy, a heart-felt interest in the unattractive people 
around her, such as she had never felt before; something far different 
from the mechanical efforts of former years, not yet as much as she 
wished, but still something at the heart, which she hoped would grow. 
And when the yearning came for closer and dearer love than earth 
had given — perhaps than earth could give — in spirit she rested in her 
Redeemer’s love. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE GULF OF TIME. 

•The wearied bird blown o’sr the deep would aooner quit its shore. 

Than I would cross the gulf again that Time has brought me o'er,” — Campbell. 

The approach of Christmas brought the following letter — the first 
since her return from abroad from Albert Vaughan to Alice: 

Theo. Semin aey, Va., December 14, 1867. 

My dear Alice : 

The beginning of the Advent season carried me back in thought 
to Morotock, and as the home of my boyhood — fit emblem of its last 


214 


THE GULF OF TIME. 


descendant — is in aslies, I have concluded to write and ask you and 
Mrs. Parker if you will kindly receive beneath your roof a dying 
man, who longs to look on his native woods again and see the graves 
of his household. The symptoms of the disease with which I was 
threatened last summer have disappeared, but one has laid its hand 
on me from which there is no appeal, — consumption. I feel that my 
days are numbered, and I liad rather die at Cooleemee than anywhere 
else. 1 am thankful to hear that Mr. Moore is with you. I had 
thought to take his place, but the young tree falls before the old one. 
God’s will be done. With kindest regards for you all. 

Very truly your friend, 

Albert Vaughan. 

We need not say what reception this letter met with. The room 
which received Albert Vaughan the soldier a few years before was now 
put in the same beautiful order to receive Albert Vaughan the dying 
soldier of Christ. Alice rejoiced at the evidence of confidence in her 
shown by this letter. 

Christmas-eve found Albert Vaughan at Cooleemee, petted and 
cared for by every one. It was a strange Christmas to. Alice, the old 
home unchanged and the old faces in new positions around her, and 
strangest of all the change in herself. To Albert certainty gave 
cheerfulness, and the prospect of his death was less trying to Alice 
than his life would have been under the circumstances. Each treated 
the other with the familiar freedom of former years, before a thought 
of passion with its strange unrest had arisen between them. 

Alice felt a strong desire — as strong as she felt anything earthly 
now — to have one full, free conversation with him before they were 
separated for time. She wished to understand the past more fully, 
and with death looking him in the face she could speak freely of it to 
him. But he must make the first step; not even death could break 
the barrier which nature and custom interposed between them. And 
it came at last. 

One bright Sunday in February Alice was detained from church by 
a severe cold. Albert had never since his coming been able to go, 
and the two were now left alone, “ to nurse and coddle each other,” 
said Mrs. Parker. Alice was seated by the fire, looking over Keble’s 
Christian Year. Albert had been reading the Morning Lessons, but 
was now reclining in his easy chair with closed eyes. 

“Alice,” said he, after some minutes’ silence, opening his eyes, “ I 
feel that I am declining. My strength will go with the Spring, and 
I have come to the conclusion that it will be more satisfactory to you 
as well as to me to have some conversation with you.” 


THE GULF OF TIME. 


215 


“It is what I have wished,” said Alice, “I would like to understand 
my life so far as I can ” — she paused, fearing that she would say more 
than he had given her warrant for. 

“I fear that we have given each other much trouble, my child,” 
said he, looking kindly at her, “but that is past now. I will speak 
plainly and candidly to you. A woman of your genius and tempera- 
ment — so unlike my own — would not have been my choice as a wife; 
circumstances caused me to love you. You perhaps cannot under- 
stand how great a shock you gave me by the letter to Lily written 
while we were at the Springs, in which it seemed to me your imagina- 
tion got altogether the better of your judgment. From that time, 
although I loved you, I doubted if we would be happy together. I 
determined not to offer you my hand till you had gained more stabil- 
ity and independence of character. The war, coming on shortly 
after, strengthened my resolve, and then after its close, my determi- 
nation to study for the ministry and your visit to Europe made me 
unwilling to bind you by a protracted engagement. I do not con- 
demn you for the result, for I left you free; but I was true to you. 
The first glance at your face after your return told me that your heart 
had departed from me.” 

“ I do not know what men expect women to do,” said Alice, in a 
tone whose cadence sank into Albert’s heart, “when they throw 
them out alone in the world with all their yearning affections strong 
within them. I have always thought that you did what you believed 
to be right, but I have not often felt that you loved me. I say noth- 
ing of what I suffered from your silence; that is past now — with God. 
If I had been your wife I could not have been truer to you in every 
thought than I was. In England I was terribly tempted by the most 
gifted man I ever knew. So much did I fear for myself that I wrote 
you intimating my danger. But no reply ever came.” 

“I wrote you,” interrupted Albert; “the letter was lost. But to 
speak truth, Alice, I said nothing save in a general way to help you. 
I thought you should withstand that temptation yourself. But in 
my heart I forgave your inconstancy — or, that you were at all shaken 
by the temptation — for the sake of your truth.” 

“By God’s help only I did withstand it,” said Alice. “He was en- 
gaged to another woman before I met him. Then your letter came 
telling me of what you supposed to be your mortal sickness, without 
one word of sympathy or feeling for me. From that moment hope 
died. Love, as a passion, it seems to me now — though I did not know 


216 


THE GULF OF TIME. 


it then — had died before for want of nourishment, but I clung to the 
thought tliat I would be true to you. The first night i got on board 
ship 1 met with a gentleman diiierent from any man 1 had ever met 
before. VVe entered into conversaticm. 1 thought him irreligious 
and tried to do him good, kjomehow, before I was aware of it, 1 felt 
the influence of a strong will controlling my own. 1 resisted it with 
all the power of which J was capable until i saw you. But without 
a word of explanation you coldly turned from me, and then 1 felt that 
1 was free. That dream too is past. 1 hope now to lead the calm, 
unfettered life of a woman subject to (jod only.” 

“That will be as God directs,” said Albert; “make no resolution 
on the subject. After all, love in Christ, union with Hun, and with 
each other in Him, is the only abiding love. Human passion will 
not last, my child.” 

“ There are such strange depths and yearnings in the heart,” said 
Alice, “it is the only part of my nature that frightens me. I feel 
that I don’t understand it, and that it may wake up some time to a 
bliss or wo that is inconceivable now.” 

“And that is why God says ‘Give me thy hearty"' said Albert; “be- 
cause it is the best part of us, the centre of the whole moral and men- 
tal, yea, and physical being. Watch, that you may never lose your 
independence of thought and self-control, and you need not fear.” 

Here Albert was interrupted by coughing, which lasted with little 
intermission until the party returned. Alice devoted herself to his 
relief and comfort. 

Need we linger over the events of the next month ? Consumption ! 
who does not know thy work? thy slow decay and strange beauty of 
body and mind. Slayer of youth in its bloom, of manhood in its 
strength, of age in its ripeness,— sword of Damocles suspended over 
myriads of men and women of each generation— will you stay only 
with the last trump? 

In the budding Spring, his last look on Alice’s face, his hand clasped 
in hers, Albert Vaughan passed to the reward of the righteous. 


217 


“he koukisheth with discipline.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


“he nourisheth with discipline.” 

The summer brought the following letters to Alice, the first from 
Mr. Graham: 

Leamington, England, Aug. 4, 1868. 

My dear Friend : 

I write by the bed-side of my wife — a mother of a day — and 
with my first-born — a boy — before me. You were with me, Alice, as 
I looked on his face for the first time, as you were beside me at my 
marriage, as you will be with me in all the supreme moments of life, — 
in the hoar of death, and, I trust, in the day of judgment. I have 
abstained from writing to you this long because I wished for the good 
work that you commenced — the new hopes and motives that you gave 
me — to be somewhat incorporated in my life before I held farther 
communication with you. The first six months of my married }ife 
were not as happy as they should have been; old habits were too 
strong, and old modes of thought and imagination hard to overcome. 
Hut God has helped me; I feel this to be a reality — for without Him 
I was powerless — powerless as to any thorough renovation. And 
now, though I know that my warfare will continue while life lasts, I 
am content, thankful, hopeful. Rose has made me the sweet, helpful 
wife that you predicted she would, helping me more by her true wo- 
manly instincts than many a more gifted woman by mere brilliance 
of intellect. She is now the happiest woman you ever saw; her bliss 
is unalloyed, her life rounded to completion. 

I hoped by this time to be able to return to the United States and 
commence the practice of law, but will wait till the country becomes 
more settled, f want to put my hand to the plough in earnest, and 
though it may now be too late for me to have an “abundant entrance” 
into the earthly as into the heavenly kingdom, yet if only just within^ 
that is enough for such as I. 

And for you, my friend, what is your life — what thoughts — what 
work — occupy you now? I have heard of your return to Cooleemee, 
and that it is a home for the homeless and the afflicted. Is your life 
to be passed in service — in ministering — arid not in being ministered 
unto? Well, there was One among us as he that serveth. I had 
hoped — but, it is well. 

Rose, to whom I have just read this letter, sends her warmest, best 
love and a kiss from the baby. She insists that he shall be called by 
my name; had he been a girl, she says, she would have preferred yours 
to any other. Write to us soon. 

Always your friend and brother in Christ, 

Robert Graham. 

The other, from Helen, was as follows: 


218 


“he nourisheth with discipline. 


Norton Rectory, Aug. 10, 1868. 

My last letter scarcely prepared you, my own darling, for the 
great change which has come in my life — my marriage. As soon as 
it was settled that Forrest should have the living of which I wrote 
you he hastened to me. “We have waited long enough,” he said, “be 
ready to marry me in three weeks and we can go to the Lakes before 
I settle down to my work.” And I have married and been to the 
Lakes, and returned without a word to my precious friend. Over and 
over have I been on the point of writing you, but during the three 
weeks previous to my marriage I was so overwhelmed with work that 
I had not a moment from early dawn until I laid my head on my pil- 
low at night. Since then the change has been so great — the unfold- 
ing of my husband’s character so wonderful — and the awakening of 
my own nature such a surprise to me, that I waited to become some- 
what settled before I wrote. Yet I have thought of you so much, be- 
loved friend; it has seemed to me that I have been more you than my- 
self since my marriage. You always told me that I had great inten- 
sity of feeling and emotional power; that my love for you proved it, 
and occasional flashes, such as my kissing your hand at Burleigh 
House, gave token of it; but that it was all repressed by m}^ prac- 
tical English education. I knew that there was an awakening of 
dormant sensibility by our friendship, but Forrest was apparently so 
practical and self-contained, and our marriage seemed so distant and 
came at last so suddenly, that I dreamed not of the greater awakening 
that awaited me in the wonder-land of married life. Forrest has told 
me since our marriage that he saw from the first the sleeping vol- 
cano in my nature, and knowing that our engagement would be pro- 
tracted, purposely repressed much manifestation of his own feelings 
until he could awaken the depths of my heart without suffering to 
me, and direct it aright to Grod. Was not this unselfish — noble — 
beautiful in him? 

Now, darling, I must tell you — you onl 3 rof all the earth — though 
I would live it for others, what makes me so happy in my marriage, — 
happy beyond any happiness I have ever seen or read or heard of — a 
happiness which no youth nor beauty nor passion could give. It is 
this: that from the first my husband taught me that our marriage 
was to be a living symbol of the union between Christ and His 
Chuph. I had heard of it before in the Bible and the marriage- 
service, but never dreamed of its being a reality. 0, I understand 
now how Christ loves and watches over His people as I never under- 
stood before, and how good it is of Him to teach us of things divine 
by things human, — how it elevates the earthly and human into the 
spiritual and eternal. 

In some of those long talks in Jephson gardens or on the banks of 
the Learn, I remember your speaking of the Song of Solomon, and 
saying that at times nought would satisfy your soul save the commu- 
nion with Christ therein expressed. I did not understand you then 
as I do now. Alas, with me the earthly must teach the spiritual. 


NONE OF THESE THINGS MOVE ME. 


219 


You feared that you might be wrong in such feelings, that they might 
only be a yearning for the human, even whilst you thought that if 
such love as you had dreamed of were possible to earth, should there 
not be a greater, intenser scope for heaven? Doubt no more, my 
precious friend; take the full comfort of that ioy to your soul — “my 
oeloved is mine and I am his.” One with Christ! that is a bliss be- 
yond all that this world can give. 

My husband sends you his love. I tell him you would have suited 
him far better in spiritual approximation to his own nature than I, 
but he says there is harmony in contrast. God keep you, my own 
darling, and lead you even now to His eternal joy, through Jesus 
Christ our Lord. Forever, your own, 

Helen. 

And this love that Helen had — that had been to Alice the dream 
of years. So strong had it been at times that it had seemed to her 
as if marriage were only to be desired as a means of giving form to a 
higher spiritual joy. And Helen had never wished nor thought of it, 
and yet it had come to her. She did not feel that superiority to hu- 
man ties with which Graham and Helen invested her. On the con- 
trary she felt very weak, and longing, as they had never longed, for 
human love and sympathy. 

Reverently she thought, did not Christ’s human nature feel the 
need of that love — the love which belonged to Eden before man fell? 
0, may be the deepest bliss she could know even here would be the 
want, not the fulfillment of earth’s sweetest hopes. Could it be that 
her Lord and Saviour wanted her soul to be all His? There might 
be a difficulty in serving Him in married life — especially to a nature 
like hers — of which she knew nothing. “The unmarried woman 
careth for the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body 
and spirit; but she that is married careth for the things of the world, 
how she may please her husband.” 

And Alice — like Beatrice — turned her face heavenward. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“NONE OF THESE THINGS MOVE ME.” 

It was a lovely evening towards the close of September. Mr. Moore 
and Mrs. Parker were seated in the front porch at Cooleemee holding 


220 “NONE OF THESE THINGS MOVE ME.” 

an animated conversation in reference to the pedigree and family re- 
lations of certain V irginians, — Mr. Moore furnishing the chronolog- 
ical part of the discourse and Mrs. f-^arker the incidents. Alice had 
taken her siesta over a pile of magazines sent her by Louis, and now 
arrayed in her lavorite dress of pure white, descended the steps for an 
evening stroll. This evenmg she had been struck with the tranquil- 
ity ol her own teelmgs. All seemed as quiet and peacelul within as 
without. The sunbeams rested not more sottly over hill and dale and 
tree-top than the sweet thoughts and images which hlled her heart. 
And yet all that at one time seemed to make life aught but a discip- 
line and trial lay forever behind her; and she felt now that she would 
not for worlds have this peace disturbed by any human passion. The 
pet and darling ol Mr. Moore and Mrs. Tarker, and beloved by all 
around her, nought could tempt her now to exchange this placid ex- 
istence tor the deeper joys ana yet deeper sorrows which love might 
bring. (She paused a few moments in the porch to receive a caress 
from Mr. Moore and a loving glance from Mrs. Larker, who was 
struck by the unwonted serenity of her lace. As Alice stepped out 
on the lawn, a gentleman on horseback appeared on the hill, or slight 
elevation, opposite the house. There was something in the figure 
which struck her at once as being familiar; and as he came nearer 
the fall in the left arm told her in a moment that he could be none 
other than Doctor Duston, — whom she awaited in calm expectation. 

As he approached the spot where she stood — after alighting and 
tying his horse — she was conscious that he took a keen and rapid sur- 
vey of her face, not its outer proportions, but of that winch lay be- 
hind it, and she was thankful that she felt no change — not a ripple 
across the smooth surface of her heart — as she extended her hand and 
welcomed him, as mistress of (Jooleemee. 

The introduction to Mr. Moore and Mrs. Parker over, they sat for 
a short time in general conversation, and then Doctor Euston re- 
marked that he did not like to interrupt Miss Bradford in her walk; 
and as he would be compelled to return to the village that night in 
order to take the train in time, he hoped that she would show him 
the garden, which he had heard was one of the finest in that part of 
Virginia. Alice assented and they proceeded, talking on different 
matters around the lawn, through the gate into the garden, until they 
reached the spot where her father, mother, and Charlie slept their 
last sleep. They stood for a moment contemplating the view — does 
our reader remember the fields of waving corn and river beyond ? 


“ NONE OF THESE THINGS MOVE ME.” 221 

when Alice, turning to make some remark to her companion^ saw 
that his face was strongly agitated. She stopped — all conventionali- 
ties swept away in the presence of real feeling. 

“You must be surprised to see me here,” he said, “my presence and 
the past require explanation.” He paused a moment and then con- 
tinued: “I will tell my story briefly and frankly. If I incur your 
contempt in its recital I shall only feel that I deserve it — but hear 
me through. All that I lay claim to is sincerity and the desire, so 
far as I may, to make reparation for the past. I was never susceptible 
to woman’s attractions, but I always felt a peculiar interest in analyz- 
ing her nature, and — I am sorry to add — testing my power over her. 
During a visit shortly before the war to a married sister much older 
than myself, I met with a young lady, the belle of the neighborhood. 
She was remarkably attractive, and while courteous to all manifested 
no deeper feeling for any one. This, more than anything else, inter- 
ested me in her. I watched with curiosity the phenomenon of a 
woman so unirapressible, and without deliberate design of dishonor- 
able conduct, I found myself practising various arts with the view of 
testing what seemed to me abnormal in her nature; and when con- 
science spoke I quieted it by the thought that if I succeeded in mak- 
ing her love me I would marry her. At this juncture of affairs the 
war broke out. I deemed it folly to think seriously of love matters 
then, and so I thought would any sensible woman. After the war I 
again visited my sister. I found the lady in question still unmarried, 
and apparently colder and more unimpressible than ever; but with 
broken fortunes, impaired health, and an arm gone, I felt no desire to 
renew the subject; and as she met me cordially and pleasantly, I 
deemed that her own good sense had settled the matter. The first 
night I met you I determined to win you, and persisted in that de- 
termination, notwithstanding my situation and your brother’s cold-^ 
ness, till I received this letter,” — drawing one from his pocket — 
“from my sister. Will you read it?” 

Alice took the letter and read as follows: 

Evekgreen Cottage, December 20, 1866. 

I am delighted to hear of your improved health, dear Henry, and 

that you are pleasantly located in , and bid fair to do well. 

This news gives me an opening to say something that I have long 
wished to say to you, but have abstained from doing so until I saw 
that some good might be accomplished by it. What your feelings 
were in the past to Evelyn Davis, and what they are now, I have never 
been able to determine. But this thing I do know: you gave her 


222 


NONE OF THESE THINGS MOVE ME. 




every reason to believe that you loved her; and only the condition of 
the country and your own health could have warranted an honorable 
man in withholding an otter of his hand for so long a time. I do not 
believe that you have regarded the subject in this light, but not the 
less is it the true one. And this is not all — were this all it would 
matter little, comparatively. I am now convinced — what 1 have long 
suspected — that you have made an impression on her heart made 
there by no other man; and in a woman of her character it is for- 
ever. Under these circumstances, now that you are in a situation to 
marry, your course is unmistakable. I would not have written so 
plainly, but feared that the subject demanded it. Not that I think 
you capable of deliberately deceiving a woman — did I think so 1 would 
no longer look upon you as a brother — but 

" Evil is wrought by want of thougbtj 

As wtli as by want of heart,” 

and 1 call upon you now, if never before, to consider seriously the re- 
sult of your own conduct. Hoping to hear from you soon. 

Your loving sister, M. L. Dudley. 

“This,” said Doctor Euston, as Alice returned the letter to him, 
caused the “ change in my conduct two years ago. I did not write to 
my sister for a long time — not until you had left for this place — then 
I told her my position in regard to you, and that I did not see under 
the circumstances what was to be done, except never to see either of 
you again, never to marry, and to withdraw myself entirely from 
ladies’ society. 1 told her that 1 was willing to do what was right if 
1 knew what it was. To which she replied as follows,” drawing a 
second letter from his pocket. “You see that I was long in making 
up my mind to this course,” he added bitterly, as Alice glanced at the 
date of the letter. 

Evergreen Cottage, January 5, 1868. 

1 regret exceedingly, dearest Henry, that such should be your posi- 
tion. The standard of honor must be low indeed at the South since 
the war to permit a man to get into such a position without the con- 
sciousness of dishonorable action. The course you propose seems to be 
the only one left you to pursue according to the world’s opinion of 
such matters. Hut it is unpractical in the highest degree and mis- 
chievious to all concerned. Listen to my plan; it is all that can be 
done now, and ought to be done. I know Miss Bradford by character; 
heard of her frequently during the war from numerous soldier-friends. 
Believe me, you have made little impression on a woman of her 
stamp, devoted to heroes and heroic action; and pardon me if I say, 
that little would be effaced if she knew the past. She would only 
rejoice in an opportunitv to do you good and help you to do right. 
You know how altogether different from this is the character of the 
other lady concerned. Every year she locks herself more closely 


223 


“none of these things move me.” 

within herself. There will be a death in life to her if the one love of 
her life is disappointed, if not a death of the soul. 1 know the power 
of women’s imagination; if you seclude yourself trom society and 
never speak to either woman, each one will imagine some interesting 
mystery connected with you, and your chains will be more indelibly 
riveted on one — possibly on both. Life is too short and too serious 
for any such trifling as this, — now to the point. Gro to Miss Brad- 
ford — tell her the whole truth; show her my letters, and ask her if 
1 am not right. Do this, and all will yet be well. 

►Sincerely and lovingly, 

M. L. Dudley. 

“ Your sister is right,” said Alice, folding the letter and returning 
it to him, “ and I am truly glad that you acted on her advice. A 
little good sense would disperse half the love-troubles in the world. 
Your duty is clear, and I hope that your heart and judgment go with 
it. As to me,” she continued, meeting his earnest, troubled look, 
“ whatever interest you may have aroused was due more to the influ- 
ence of a strong will acting on an unoccupied, susceptible heart 
than” — she smiled — *‘to your own merits. And the religious ele- 
ment was strong in it — stronger than you knew. That still is lett 
me,” she continued, lifting her eyes beaming to his; “that you have 
humbled your pride sufiiciently to come to me with these letters grat- 
ifies me more than if you had come to me with an avowal ol love. 
I feel that 1 have not been altogether misunderstood. And believe 
me, I am quietly, tranquilly happy, and am glad that you did not 
come to disturb it.” 

“You will do me the justice to believe,” said Doctor Duston, “that 
I knew that any power which I might have gained over you was due 
more to my own will influencing a highly emotional nature, and to 
your interest in my eternal well-being, than to my own merits. My 
only desire now is to atone so far as 1 can for the past — to live not 
unworthy of the Great Day when we shall give an account of our 
actions.” 

“And where we shall all meet,” said Alice, with cheerful solemnity. 
“Doctor Euston, that declaration has made me happier than I had 
ever dreamed you could make me. And now, tea will be waiting for 
us — let us return to the house.” 

They walked quietly back to the house. At tea Alice exerted her- 
self to make everything pass ott pleasantly, in which she was seconded 
by Mrs. Parker. Doctor Euston was grave and silent, ate little, and 
soon after tea took leave. Alice accompanied him to the door. 


124 


“a goodly heritage.” 

“It is one of my pet ideas,” she said, as she extended her hand to 
him, “to collect all my freinds together some' Christmas at Cooleemee. 
Will you — and your wife--not be of the number?” 

A quick, sudden glance of Doctor Euston’s eyes, and a low bow 
over the passive hand, which he held passively, was the only reply. 

A silence, something like that after the death of her father, fell 
upon Alice when she reached her room. Her life was decided — and 
without her own intervention — she thanked God for that. And light 
was breaking. The way which God had led her was growing plain. 
What a blight would have fallen on her life in Albert Vaughan’s 
death had not Doctor Eustou first appeared to show her the transitory 
nature of human passion. Love — marriage — single life — ^each an in- 
cident in life’s story — one or the other necessary to the formation of 
character and the work to be done for God in the world. What mat- 
tered it whether done chiefiy for husband and child, or for the suffer- 
ing world, near and far, if the heart was only in it. And with a glow 
of wide, deep, healthful enthusiasm unknown in the past, Alice looked 
out on the life before her. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“a goodly heritage.” 

The summer of 1870 found a large party assembled beneath the 
venerable roof of Cooleemee. Alice’s first idea, as expressed to Doc- 
tor Euston, was to gather .her most intimate friends from the four 
quarters of the globe together at Christmas. But owing to the greater 
facilities in reaching the country and enjoying country-life in sum- 
mer, her original plan was changed. And now on a fair morning in 
early June we find Colonel Bradford and family, Mr. and Mrs. Robert 
Graham and boy, Helen aud her husband. Doctor and Mrs. Euston, 
and Louis, together with Mrs. Parker, Mr. Moore, and Doctor Pringle, 
assembled in the same porch, and engaged — the masculine part of the 
company with the exception of Mr. Meredith, Helen’s husband, in 
the same occupation with which our story opened — Alice, Colonel 
and Mrs. Bradford, the only persons living of those who sat there 
eleven years before. None of the party are strangers to us except 


225 


“a goodly heritage.” 

Mrs. Euston and Mr. Meredith. The former is a tall, stately bru- 
nette, with an intense rather than gentle expression of face, but with 
a smile of great sweetness; the latter a well-built Englishman, not 
handsome, but with a face singularly uniting spiritual elevation and 
practical sense. 

Charlie is at play on the lawn with little Robert Graham, a splendid- 
looking boy, a juvenile picture of his father; and the third figure in 
the party is a wooly-headed little African, Arberius the younger, 

Graham’s face, as he throws it back to catch the morning breeze, 
is quiet, contented, restful, — and there is even more than the old in- 
tellectual power in it. Rose has grown quite matronly, and there is. 
more of character and dignity in her bearing. It is evident in the 
case of each. Doctor Euston and Mr. Graham, that although his wife 
is a help-meet for him, she is controlled and directed by him, and looks 
up to him with unbounded reverence. 

Louis is sitting on the steps at Alice’s feet as in the days gone by; 
and though there is devotion in the look he turns on her, all passion 
has passed from it. The progress of inevitable change is on him too. 
He is now betrothed to a fair, young Norfolk girl, “one whose char- 
acter is like yours. Miss Alice,” he said in announcing it to her, “ that 
is why I chose her.” 

“And she will be here in our next gathering,” whispers Alice to 
Louis. 

And Alice — how fares she amid all these happy lovers? With the 
few gray hairs that cluster around her shining forehead, is there no 
gray in her heart? None whatever. In her busy, cheerful life, there 
is no time nor place for morbid feeling. The mission-school must be 
kept up; the widow and orphan visited; the sick ministered unto; 
the outcast and fallen reclaimed, — the work of Christ done in the 
world. 

And for the future? 

“ I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor prin- 
cipalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor . things to come, nor 
height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us 
from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord,” 


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